The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
A handful of days later they anchor off the coast of Cyprus. Sinbad watches Maeve as closely as he can while trying to be discreet. Doubar isn't the perceptive type, so if he's noticed Sinbad's increased interest in her, that means the others have, too. Firouz won't bring up the subject without prompting and neither will Rongar, but Sinbad has felt the Moor's eyes on him, watching him with that solemn, knowing look. He's a little afraid to question just how much his silent friend sees, how much he knows. More than he should, Sinbad is certain, and that's his fault, not Rongar's. He needs to take more care. Rongar will keep this secret even unto his death; that isn't a concern. But Antoine's warning of Scratch's danger lies heavy on his shoulders. No one can know. Maeve's life, and the life of the child she carries, depends on it.
Sinbad divides his attention between Maeve and the sea as they ride the surf toward a beach of coarse golden sand. He wants badly to stop her when she leaps out barely a heartbeat behind Rongar, splashing into the surf as they haul at the boat, but he has no legitimate reason to prevent her and every reason to keep his mouth shut. Irritated at his own impotence in the situation, he swallows the words he wants so badly to say and helps hoist the boat onto the shore, well above the high-tide line.
Maeve retrieves her boots from the bottom of the boat and carries them, long wet legs gleaming in the hot afternoon. One hand combs through her windblown curls, glints of copper and ruby throwing back the brilliance of the sun. She breathes deeply, lovely face turned up, soaking in the wind and sun for a long moment, looking happier than he's seen her in a while. Rongar touches her shoulder gently. When she opens her eyes, her smile is brilliant.
Sinbad forces himself to quash a completely unwarranted drip of envy. It feels ridiculously unfair that Rongar can touch her freely and he can't. Of course he knows why—he understands. That doesn't make it any easier to take when he sees her smile at another man, even a member of his crew. She doesn't want the silent Moor as anything but a friend and Sinbad doubts Rongar feels any differently, so he ruthlessly squashes down his dark flickers of jealousy and does his best to pay attention to Doubar as he talks.
He's had more than enough time to agonize over what to do once they find Talia, but Sinbad hasn't decided on a plan yet. He can't bear to bring the subject up in bed, the only time he gets with his sorceress. Not that they spend much of it talking. He's adamant about taking better care of her, which includes improving their sleeping habits. He still can't sleep without her and can't bring himself to suggest she stay in her own cabin, but he's doing his best to encourage sleep, not fucking. At least, he's trying. Sometimes it even works.
They pass from the beach through a large stand of scrub pine, spindly, dry little trees doing their best to survive in sandy, salty soil, then up a small rise, where a village sits overlooking the beach. The mud-brick houses gleam bright with whitewash. Sinbad's keen eyes scan the area for danger, but he sees nothing untoward. The gentle scent of cooking fires pervades the town, and from the far end of the main street he can hear the rhythmic metallic clang of a blacksmith.
Without discussion, they head for the small inn. It's dark inside, awnings preventing the worst of the sun from blazing through the open windows. Several men sit at a table haggling over the terms of a contract, but other than that the place is deserted. The drowsy innkeeper leans on his fist, nearly asleep in the dry, lazy heat of the day until he sees them.
"Welcome, strangers." He smiles and stretches his legs before standing. "What can I do for you?"
"Wine, my friend," Doubar says, dropping onto a bench with a small grunt. "You're looking at some very parched sailors."
The innkeeper laughs. "Aye. I know parched sailors when I see them!" He disappears into a back room, returning with a heavy ceramic amphora.
Doubar beams. "I can already see that we're going to get along."
"We're also looking for information," Sinbad says, bracing himself. There's no telling what response Talia's name might trigger. "I'd heard Talia, the Black Rose of Oman, had been seen around here."
The innkeeper sets a welter of crockery mugs on the table, none of them matching, all of them chipped. He barks a sharp laugh. "Aye, that one. She a friend of yours?"
"I wouldn't go that far," Maeve says as Rongar places a hand at her elbow, offering her a seat. He's always been the picture of chivalry with her, and Sinbad once again orders himself not to feel jealous. She's his. He can't touch her in the light of day, but that doesn't change the promise she made, or the paternity of the child she carries. She's still his. He sits on her other side, knowing he shouldn't but unable to stop himself. He needs her near, even if he can't touch her.
"Has the Black Rose tried one of her scams on you, then?" the man asks, bringing bowls of olives preserved in oil and rosemary to the table, shiny and gleaming. "Cheese and figs?"
"And plenty of them!" Doubar lifts the vessel and begins to pour.
"We've accidentally found ourselves caught up in her schemes before," Sinbad allows, careful how he phrases their past with Talia. She's a polarizing figure. Some see her as a lovable rogue. Others would like her hanged. He passes the innkeeper payment when the man returns with crumbly goat cheese, ripe figs, and flatbread.
"I'm sorry to hear it," the innkeeper says. "And aye, she's around. Couldn't say exactly where at the moment. She got into some trouble on the mainland, I heard."
"We heard that, as well," Sinbad says as Doubar chuckles. "But I doubt there are many places left where she hasn't stirred up trouble, to be honest."
Maeve rolls her eyes. He's sitting too close to her, nearly hip to hip on the rough bench. He really should move away, but he doesn't.
"She seems to have quite the reputation," Firouz says, pushing the platter of bread across the table to Rongar.
"And what good's a pirate without a reputation?" The innkeeper chuckles. "Though I'd prefer she enhance it elsewhere."
"Any guesses where to try if we want to track her down?" Sinbad watches out of the corner of his eye as Maeve eats bits of bread but doesn't touch the wine. He'll have to ask her about that later.
"Last I heard she was around the north side of the island. There are inhabited islets along that way, and it's not so very far to Crete." The man shrugs his shoulders. "She goes with the wind, as do all you sailors."
That she does. Sinbad frowns. If she heads up into the Aegean, he's not sure they'll ever catch her. Too many islands litter that area—far too many to check methodically. He has to hope she chooses a different course.
Or not. He still has no idea what to do once they find her. Doubar thinks he needs her for the Protocol, and Sinbad supposes he does. Not as his champion, but as a decoy. How to explain that to her, he doesn't know. Doubar expects a nephew out of her, since he thinks Maeve rejected Sinbad. But Sinbad has no intention of sleeping with her. Maeve won't stand for it, he knows without asking, and he has no desire to anyway. The only woman he wants currently sits beside him, so close he can feel the warmth of her leg through the thin linen of his sirwal.
"But the lady has no taste for wine?" the innkeeper says, catching sight of Maeve's untouched cup. "There's ale, if you prefer. Or cold well water."
She gives him a grateful smile. "Water would be lovely. Thank you."
Sinbad watches her carefully, and sees Rongar on her other side doing the same. They exchange a long, speaking glance that tells Sinbad everything. Rongar knows. He knows Maeve, and knows she would never step back with Sinbad's soul at stake, no matter what's asked of her. He may not know why they're hiding, why they feel the need to lie, but he knows Maeve and trusts his captain.
Sinbad allows himself the tiniest nod, a solemn acknowledgment of all Rongar can't say. In this moment, he's more grateful for the Moor than he can express. Doubar and Firouz might still be in the dark, but he has an ally on his ship now, someone who can help him watch over Maeve and keep her safe.
The innkeeper brings her water, which she thanks him for. Sinbad doesn't know why she doesn't want her wine, but she seems otherwise fine so he does his best not to worry. She eats flatbread and olives and little crumbles of salty goat cheese, arguing good-naturedly with Firouz about the existence of minotaurs.
"They're physically impossible," Firouz insists. "A...a mishmash made up by storytellers eons ago."
"I don't know." She passes the dish of olives across the table to him. "I've never seen one, but I've seen other things you say don't exist. You've seen things you say don't exist. It may be time to stop saying it."
"Those ghosts were a mass hallucination. I said it then, and I still say it now."
She chuckles, the sound low and sweet. "You keep believing that."
"I do," he insists.
"What about Poseidon?"
Momentarily speechless, Firouz scratches his nose as he fumbles for words. Doubar's rumbling laugh erupts, and Sinbad follows. It feels incredibly good to laugh like this, to have a moment to just...be themselves again. No curses. No lies. Just them, just as they are. He brushes his knuckles gently against her bare leg under the table.
"The scientific method is all about trial and error," Firouz says finally, passing his empty cup to Doubar to refill. "One formulates a hypothesis, then tests its veracity. Being proven wrong isn't failure. It's progress."
Maeve smiles wistfully. "I wish everyone felt that way."
"I've always said science will rule one day."
She wrinkles her lovely nose. "Not that part. I mean not feeling like a failure when they're wrong. Maybe if men weren't so afraid of being wrong, there would be less war." She lifts her shoulders in a shrug and pushes her half-finished cup aside.
Sinbad taps the side of her smooth thigh lightly with his fingertip, hidden under the table. When she glances at him he lifts an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at her cup. She needs her water; even Keely said so.
She shakes her head, the barest shift of movement. "Tastes off." Her voice is too low for the innkeeper across the room to hear.
Doubar rolls his eyes. Sinbad ignores him. Maeve definitely knows how to complain when she wants to, but she's never complained about food before, no matter how meagre the quantity or poor the quality. After hearing some of the comments Antoine has made about her past, he thinks he understands why she doesn't. Can being with child affect her stomach or sense of taste? He files it away to ask the next time they're at Breakwater.
"Have you sailed around Cyprus before?" Firouz asks, changing the subject. "How long will it take to get to the north side of the island?"
"Depends on the tides, and the weather. There's a great natural harbor at Lefka; I think that's where we'll head first." Out of curiosity, Sinbad sips Maeve's water. There's a bitter hint to it, perhaps from the use of a metal bucket or something in the well. Nothing that would ordinarily stop Maeve or any other sailor from drinking it. He shrugs internally and lets her be. Arguing with her about it at this point will only bring more unwanted attention.
"I didn't like the look of those clouds this morning, little brother." Doubar empties his cup and quickly refills it.
"I know." Storms in the Mediterranean tend to be gentler than other places he's sailed, but he's still not interested in encountering one. "If the windward sky looks bad later this afternoon, we may just remain overnight. Safer that way."
Doubar frowns. "We need to find Talia. Soon."
"We will." Sinbad drops his hand, letting his fingers brush Maeve's warm skin under the table. He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But she's sitting so close, and his hands are drawn to her, a moth to her flame. She hooks her index finger with his lightly, just for a moment, a sweet gesture of understanding before pushing him gently away. Smart girl. She's stronger than him, at least where this is concerned. She loves his touch and she can't stop herself from slipping into his bunk at night, but she's much better able to control herself during the day, when the light shines. He's terrible at it. He craves the touch of her skin, her low, sweet laugh. The tender smile he still stubbornly swears is only for him.
"You're dragging your feet like you're facing an executioner, not a pretty woman." Doubar flicks his eyes at Maeve, who ignores him, then back to Sinbad. "You're the one who wanted to search for Talia in the first place."
"I still do." It's…almost not quite a lie. He needs a woman—or several women, preferably—to act as a decoy and keep the pressure off of Maeve. How to explain that to Talia, and keep her and Maeve from fighting, he has no idea. "I just don't feel the same sense of urgency you do. We have plenty of time, brother."
"Say you. I say you need all the time you can get. You still have to convince her to help you, which may be a job. I didn't expect any woman to turn you down, but apparently I don't know girls as well as I thought I did." His eyes burn with resentment as they turn toward Maeve. She scowls but refuses to drop her gaze, daring him to call her out by name. To Sinbad's relief, he doesn't.
"He does have a point," Firouz says, spitting an olive pit into his hand. "What if Talia refuses?"
"Both the caliph and Omar owe me enough that she won't be able to refuse." Sinbad's tone darkens. Maeve agreed to help him, and risk her life doing so, in return for basically nothing. He vowed to take care of her, which she doesn't want. She's getting nothing for her trouble except the chance to save him, to keep him. He knows even without asking that Talia will not do the same. Whatever she agrees to, she'll expect to be paid extremely well for it.
"Didn't al-Alawy say you couldn't pay a woman to be your champion?" Firouz dips a piece of bread in the bowl of oil and olives.
"He said I couldn't pay a stranger to do it. He didn't say anything about compensating a friend."
"It still feels off to me," Firouz says through a mouthful. "History isn't my area of expertise, let alone myth and legend, but don't these hero quests usually require some sort of selfless act?"
"Ask al-Alawy next time you see him." Sinbad pushes his cup toward Doubar to refill. "I'm sick to death of books and myths and curses. Give me a petty usurper or a bullying warlord to fight any day."
"Hear, hear." Doubar slides his cup back. "Magic be damned."
Beside Sinbad, Maeve tenses. He touches her gently once more, brushing a light fingertip along the curve of her knee. "I wouldn't go that far." He drinks, forcing his hand away from her skin. "Magic has got us out of quite a few scrapes. And we'll need it to find Dim-Dim."
Doubar's blunt face sobers at the mention of their old master. "If Dim-Dim were here, he'd know how to fix this mess."
Would he? Sinbad doesn't know. Antoine and al-Alawy, both experts in their own ways, say the only way out of Scratch's claim on his soul is the Tam Lin Protocol. Dim-Dim can't change that. But he's certain that, were his mentor here, he'd find a way to smooth things over between Doubar and Maeve. That would alleviate a great deal of tension, and ease Sinbad's worry for her. He can't help that she's a target for Scratch and Rumina, but he feels responsible for her rift with Doubar.
"Dinar said we couldn't find Dim-Dim without the bees and the daffodils, whatever that means." Maeve rests her chin in her hand.
"No, he said you couldn't find him without them," Doubar snaps. "I refuse to be fettered by an exhausted old man's deathbed raving."
Maeve's had enough. Sinbad can sense it even before she rises. She's been remarkably tolerant, especially for her, ignoring Doubar's jabs at her since Cairo. She's taken to leaving his presence when she can't tolerate it any more, which is fine on board ship, but now Sinbad puts out a warning hand, just managing not to touch her.
"Don't. Remember the thugs in Cairo?"
She rolls her eyes, prepared to ignore him. Sinbad braces for a fight, but Rongar rises swiftly and offers her his arm. His eyes find his captain's. He'll stay with her. He won't let her come to harm.
Sinbad relents. It's not safe for him to be alone with her in the daylight, considering who might be watching and how poorly he hides his feelings. Rongar will protect her with his life; she's as safe with the Moor as she can possibly be. He nods at Rongar, and his two crewmembers quickly leave the inn. Maeve doesn't put up a fuss about her bodyguard, which surprises him a little. Maybe the incident in Cairo scared her more than he originally thought.
"Lay off her," he says, settling back in his seat, looking squarely at Doubar.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Doubar drinks. He attempts to look unconcerned, but deception isn't one of his strong suits and he fails miserably. He hates arguing with his brother, and it shows.
"Yes, you do, and I've told you before to stop. She made her choice. It's in the past. We're searching for Talia, and you have to move on."
Doubar's face darkens. "Take your own advice, brother."
Sinbad slams his fist on the table. He's so incredibly tired of this, of the bickering, the simmering resentment. "So what if I like her? Why is that so wrong? Because she doesn't want to bear children? I'd be just as happy without, anyway."
Doubar blanches. "Because she's unreliable! She proved that by putting her own wishes above the worth of your soul!" His bushy eyebrows lower like thunderclouds.
"She said she'd help me if she was my only choice, but she isn't. That's why we're here, and I'm sick of having the same argument with you over and over again." They're getting strange looks from the other patrons in the inn. Sinbad lowers his voice. He's tired and anxious, still undecided about what to tell Talia, and his heart hurts. Doubar is his brother. For so long, he was the most important person in his life—his only tie to his lost parents, his only blood relative. They've hardly ever been apart, and they've never clashed so badly as they do over Maeve. Something cold touches his blood, like tiny chips of ice growing in his veins. What if this can't be fixed? He loves Maeve with everything he is, every fiber of his being. But Doubar is his blood. What if he's forced to choose?
No. No, he tells himself firmly. It won't happen. He's in control of himself, in control of the situation. He reshaped his future after Leah died, and he can do it again. He needs his brother and his love, and he refuses to settle for one or the other.
"I can't stop you from being angry. Fine. Be angry. Waste your energy sulking, if that's what makes you happy. But stop antagonizing her. She's been patient, but at some point she's going to snap and you won't like the consequences." Of that Sinbad is positive. Maeve isn't deliberately vicious but when she lights she's like one of Firouz's exploding sticks. Whatever form her anger takes, it won't be pretty.
"Or maybe I'll snap and she won't like the consequences." Doubar stares into his mug, his face dark with anger.
Firouz puts a wary hand on the big man's shoulder. "Don't say that, Doubar."
"Listen to Firouz." Sinbad stands swiftly. He can't believe what he's hearing and he isn't interested in listening anymore. It's the drink talking. It has to be. "I need some air."
Outside, the evening heat bakes the island but a stiff breeze blows from the east. Sinbad walks swiftly through the scrub pine surrounding the village. He's tense, and the icy crystals of fear in his blood seem to be growing. He looks to the east, dark clouds moving swiftly toward the island. Is that the seat of his unease—just a change in the weather? He's been on the sea so long he can feel coming storms in his bones, an aching, unsettled feeling deep within. He feels it now, staring at the gathering darkness. But is that all?
No. No, he feels far more than just a threatening storm. He respects the sea and what it can do but he isn't afraid of it. He's refused to fear the elements since losing Leah. He's scared now, but not of the gathering clouds, the scent of lightning on the wind. Scared for Doubar. Maeve. Himself. Rongar and Firouz. Maeve's family at Breakwater. Everyone he cares about will be collateral damage if the Protocol doesn't work, and even if it does, what then? What will he be left with? A wrecked brotherhood? A crew forced to pick sides? What about their search for Dim-Dim? What about everything they've faced together up to this point?
Sinbad rubs his forehead and clasps his hands behind his neck, lifting his face to the sky, feeling the westering sun on his scalp, warming him. Sunset will come soon, the storm close on its heels, rolling ever closer. He closes his eyes and feels the air around him, lets his bones and his gut tell him what they know. It won't be a terrible storm—not like the one that sank his last ship—but he refuses to risk the Nomad and her crew. They'll weather the storm where they are, and continue to the north side of the island in the morning.
The sound of swift feet interrupts Sinbad's quiet moment. He turns, reluctantly opening his eyes. "Rongar?" The Moor is distressed, black eyes wide, heaving deep breaths as he urgently beckons Sinbad to follow.
Sinbad does without argument. "What happened?" He pushes into a run, matching Rongar's long strides. "Where's Maeve?" He's supposed to be watching her.
Rongar shakes his head tightly as they run, pointing down to the beach, their longboat a dark speck on the sand.
Sinbad's uneasy feeling erupts into true fear. Rongar has longer legs and is usually faster, but Sinbad puts on a burst of speed and pulls ahead. He catches himself on the side of the boat, panting, leaning into the vessel.
She's curled on the wet, sandy bottom of the boat, convulsing.
"What happened?" Sinbad demands.
Rongar mimics vomiting, then holds his fist in the air and drops it abruptly. He pretends to lift someone into the boat.
"We need Firouz." Sinbad touches the tangle of her hair. He feels useless, and he hates it. She shakes, not as if she's cold, but as if she's having a fit. She retches, and he's horrified to see her bring up nothing but dark blood.
Rongar points to the path leading up to the village. Doubar and Firouz are there—he must have gone to the inn first before seeking Sinbad elsewhere. Firouz hustles, but Doubar is slower, harried by the amount of wine he drank.
Sinbad cups a hand around his mouth and shouts. "Hurry!" It's the demand of a captain, but also just a terrified man. Some women get sick when they're pregnant, he knows, but this isn't just an upset stomach. He leaps into the boat and crouches near her, hand on her shoulder, but there's nothing he can do. He doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't know how to help, and he's terrified to even touch her. She groans, her tight face a mask of pain, dark blood smeared on her soft lips.
"I'm here," he says, feeling as if the air's being squeezed out of him. He forces his lungs to expand, dropping his head near hers, hoping she can hear him. The violent movements of her body don't cease. He squeezes her arm, unable to do anything else. He doesn't even have the ability to fetch Keely, because he can't work the spell to take him to Breakwater. "Please, just hold on. Firouz is coming, and I'm here."
She doesn't answer; whether she can hear him or not he can't guess. She retches again, dark blood staining the sandy bottom of the boat.
"I'm here," Firouz pants, leaning over the side of the boat. "What happened?"
"Rongar says she got sick and collapsed." Sinbad doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds like it's coming from a million miles away. "She's bringing up blood. Help her!"
Firouz climbs nimbly into the boat, observing her convulsions with his keen gaze. He touches her forehead and cheek with the back of his fingers. "She's cold." He frowns and takes her wrist, the pads of his fingertips measuring her pulse. "Way, way too fast." He runs his tongue along the front of his teeth as he thinks.
"Can you slow it down?"
"I have several concoctions that can do that, yes, but until I know what's causing the convulsions I don't know if any of them are safe to give her." He watches as she retches and coughs, spitting up blood.
"Well, figure it out!" Sinbad snaps.
"I'm doing my best!" Firouz uses the pad of his thumb to gently lift her eyelid. Her pupil is hugely dilated, almost swallowing the golden-brown of her iris. Sinbad is positive she can't see them.
"Well, do better!" Sinbad knows Firouz isn't to blame, but he's close to panic himself. He pushes into the bottom of the boat, lifting her head to rest on his knee, holding her gently. He can't bear to watch her shake like this anymore, but his small attempt to soothe her does nothing. The tremors wracking her body are strong, seizing her despite his hands.
"Sickness from bad food takes more time to set in," Firouz says, sounding nearly as desperate as Sinbad feels. "And it doesn't hit this hard."
"And we all ate the same food," Doubar pants as he finally reaches the boat. "She shouldn't be the only one sick." He grabs the side of the longboat and leans heavily on it, reeling with wine after his lurching run.
"Magic of some sort? A curse?" Sinbad strokes her hair, holding her head on his knee as firmly as he dares. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he doesn't want her to hurt herself either as she thrashes.
"If so, I'm of no use." Firouz observes her struggling body, how she pants. "It doesn't look like magic," he says hesitantly. "That's not a scientific statement, just a stray observation."
"Well, what does it look like?" Sinbad demands. He's quickly losing patience with Firouz, but he has no one else to turn to. He strokes her cheek with his rough thumb, holding her hair back gently as she retches once more.
"Poison, to be honest," Firouz admits, though Sinbad can tell from his voice that he doesn't want to.
Poison. Sinbad doesn't know what to think, what to feel. Is this answer better than no answer at all? "What poison?"
"Ah...that's the hard part. Many substances elicit similar symptoms."
Maeve writhes in his grasp. She's white as the surf despite the exertion of her body, and he knows she's in pain even though she can't say so. She groans again, the sound low and rough, rolling out of a throat gone raw.
"Figure it out!" Sinbad snaps. Losing her isn't an option. Losing the child she carries isn't an option. He grabs her flailing hand, feeling the hard metal of her useless bracelet under her sleeve. He'd take her to Keely in an instant if he could, but he doesn't know how and has no magic besides.
"Ah…" Firouz hesitates.
"What?" Sinbad is in no mood for games. Maeve needs help now.
"The, ah, generally accepted method of testing isn't advisable in this case."
"Why not?"
"You'll kill me," Firouz says flatly.
"What? I won't." Sinbad stares at the man. Has he gone mad?
"You will."
Sinbad glowers. "I'll kill you if you don't."
Firouz turns almost as white as Maeve. Swiftly, shrinking from his captain as he moves, he leans down and licks Maeve's bloody mouth.
Sinbad has to physically restrain himself from punching his best friend. He holds Maeve's head carefully and wills himself not to explode.
Firouz's face scrunches up in an intense expression of disgust and he spits over the side of the boat. "Aconite," he says, wiping his tongue with his sleeve, still grimacing. "Rongar, did she eat or drink anything after you left the inn?"
The Moor shakes his head, his face solemn.
"I don't care how it happened! How do we stop it?" Sinbad demands. "Do you have an antidote on the ship?"
Firouz shakes his head slowly. "Aconite has no antidote. I have medicinal charcoal. That may help. And water to dilute the poison." He has trouble meeting Sinbad's eyes. "That's the extent of what science can do."
Sinbad wants to demand what good science is if it can't save a life—this life. The woman who means everything to him and the child she bears. He forces the words back. They won't help Maeve, only upset Firouz, who doesn't deserve his anger. He motions Rongar and Doubar into the boat impatiently. "Whatever you have, whatever you can do to help her, do it," he demands of his physician, sliding Maeve's head gently off his leg. He shucks off his vest and places it under her cheek, reaching for an oar.
They work as a team, the argument in the inn forgotten. Doubar and Rongar shove the boat out into the surf and jump in. They row, maneuvering carefully around Maeve's huddled, shaking form, tight-lipped, silent save for their panting breaths as they pull at their oars, fighting the surf until they break free into calmer water, aiming for the Nomad. The threatened storm is almost upon them, too, but Sinbad can't care about that now. He's too concerned with the woman in the bottom of the boat, still convulsing as her body fights the poison. He has no idea what aconite is, who poisoned her, how, or why, and right now he really doesn't care. He just needs Firouz to fix it.
"That library you visited," Firouz pants, hauling at his oar. "The one she has a door to?"
"What about it?" Sinbad is in no mood for the man's rambling tangents right now.
"Someone there might know better than me. Or have access to more medicines." He heaves a panting breath. "I can't make any promises about her recovery, Sinbad. I'm open to suggestions."
So is Sinbad, but Breakwater isn't an option. "I can't open the door," he says as they draw alongside the ship. "So whatever knowledge they have is useless to us." He lifts her carefully, knowing he should let Doubar or Rongar do it instead but really not giving a shit. She struggles, but he's stronger. He hates putting her over his shoulder like a sack of grain but he has no choice as he climbs to the deck. Rongar beats him over the side and takes her carefully from him as Sinbad swings up onto his ship.
"Storm's coming." He breathes deeply. "Best prepare. I'll come help as soon as I can."
Rongar shakes his head as he hands Maeve's body back to his captain. He taps her hand lightly, then squeezes Sinbad's shoulder.
"I know, but you need me, too."
Rongar shakes his head again and points firmly at the door before reaching for a line, helping Doubar begin to haul the boat up.
"Truthfully, she probably doesn't know you're there," Firouz pants as he catches his breath.
Rongar whacks him upside the head.
"Well, it's true." Firouz rubs his head as he opens the door.
Sinbad doesn't care. He fumbles down the steps into the blackness of the galley, blind until Firouz lights a lantern. The inventor opens the door to Maeve's tiny cabin and Sinbad places her carefully on her narrow bunk. He strokes her hair back and forces himself to step away.
"Take care of her," he says tightly.
"You have to batten down the hatches. I know." Firouz lights another lantern. "I'll do my best."
He always does. Sinbad clenches his jaw and forces himself to move, to leave Maeve's side. She's strong, and in knowledgeable hands. The best thing he can do for her now is make sure the Nomad weathers the storm.
Back on deck, his crew have things well in hand. He climbs into the rigging. They need to stow the sails, and close the ship as tightly as they can. Doubar issues orders in his gruff, booming voice, and Sinbad lets him. His body works on autopilot as his mind struggles to absorb what's happening below.
He can't lose her. He can't. Not just because of the child she carries, but because of everything she is to him, everything she means. He feels oddly distant from his body, as if he's watching himself work, observing his motions from far away. He can feel the pain of his panic, the rushing turmoil in his body, but it's muted, somehow. Like running in deep water, or moving in a dream. He can't lose her. The frantic beat of that thought, those words, is all he knows. His heart staggers as it beats against the jagged edges of his fear, knives which slice deep. He needs her. Why doesn't matter anymore, only the need. They make no sense together, and that's fine. He loves her desperately anyway. More than anything. He'd happily switch places with her right now if he could.
When there's nothing left on deck to do, he returns below. The wind has picked up and the ship rocks and bobs in the water, air whistling through tiny chinks in the hull. Sinbad ignores it, seeking her cabin, the solace of her presence.
She's still when he returns, though she looks anything but peaceful. Even in dim lantern light, she's ice-white. Firouz kneels next to the bed, a cup in his hand. Shadowed eyes turn to his captain. Sinbad can see by the fine lines around his eyes, his mouth, that his news isn't good.
"I need to flush her system, but she won't drink."
"Is she even conscious?"
"Doubtful." Firouz touches the soft inside of her wrist once more, and shakes his head. "Still too fast."
"What about al'ufiun?"
"From the poppy? I have some, but it's not a good idea."
"Why not? It makes you sleepy. Doesn't that mean it could slow her heart?"
"Or stop it."
"There has to be something you can do!"
Firouz puts the cup to her lips again, but her body does not respond. "I gave her some charcoal, but she's become unresponsive. This fight is hers to win or lose now. I'm sorry, Sinbad. But there are limits even to science."
Sinbad wants to throttle the man. He paces in and out her open doorway, her cabin nearly too small for three people at once. There has to be something else they can do. There has to be.
"I'll check my texts," Firouz says, rising. "It's possible I missed something."
It's not actually possible, not for Firouz, but Sinbad doesn't argue with him. If Firouz can't do anything more, he wants to be alone with her. He sits cautiously on the edge of her bunk. The straw mattress rustles, the sound nearly lost in the creaking of the ship. Vaguely, from outside, he hears the first spatters of rain.
She's so beautiful. Strong, he tries to tell himself. Resilient. If anyone can fight off a poisoning, she can. He has no idea what good charcoal can do but he trusts Firouz. And her. He bends and presses his lips carefully to her damp forehead. What does stealth matter now? She's sweaty but shivering, her skin far too cool. The violent convulsions have eased, but Firouz didn't seem to think that was a good thing. Sinbad doesn't know what to think. He takes her wrist just as he watched Firouz do, pressing the pads of his fingers to the tender flesh. Her pulse trips and races, far too fast and far too light. Blood stains her cracked lips.
She needs Keely. He strokes her hair, not caring who might be watching, either through the open door or magically. She needs more help than Firouz can give. Firouz is the best scientist Sinbad has ever met, but there are limits to every discipline. Keely is no physician, but her mix of folk remedies and magic has kept Maeve alive and largely unharmed thus far. She needs her now. He takes her left hand in his and pulls her sleeve up, revealing the silver gleam of her bracelet. He runs his thumb over the polished face of the opal, milky white until the sun hits it just right, when it flares into life. Its colors lie dormant in the dim glow of a single lantern, as pale as the girl who wears it. He wishes with everything he is that he could use the spell stored in the stone to transport Maeve to her people. To save her.
Maeve jerks, a single tremor shaking her body. She whimpers softly. Her cracked lips look like they've been burned. He squeezes her hand and runs his thumb over the opal once more. They need Keely. Far more than when Rumina shoved Maeve out the window of Omar's library. He saved her then. He can't save her now.
Maeve trembles softly, and suddenly the bracelet on Sinbad's wrist bursts into life. It glows, the rainbow colors so bright his eyes water. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear them. Before his jumbled thoughts come under control, the stone on Maeve's bracelet wakes, too. Instead of glowing red with her magic, it shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow.
He doesn't stop to think. Doesn't even consider the possible consequences. He touches the stone.
Traveling with Maeve's bracelet has never hurt before. This time it does. He feels as if he's being torn apart, like he's the rope in a giant's game of tug-of-war. Bitter cold takes him, and he can't breathe. There's no air. He struggles, suspended somewhere between two realities for an agonizing moment that feels like forever. Then suddenly he's falling, crashing to the ground, flat on his back in cold, wet grass.
Breakwater. The green, living scent of the place comes swiftly as he sucks in air, grateful to be alive, for his lungs working, his heart beating. He blinks sparkles from his vision as he hears a door slam, then pounding feet in wet grass.
"What the everloving fuck do you think you're doing?"
Keely's either outraged or worried and hiding it well. He struggles to sit, and finds he can't. His head spins and reels, a splitting headache crashing down. He groans and closes his eyes again, but the spinning doesn't stop. With all the strength he can muster he manages to turn to the side before heaving up the contents of his stomach.
"Serves you right, messing with things you have no business touching." Despite Keely's words, Sinbad feels gentle hands cool on his head. Instantly the pain recedes. He breathes shakily, not trusting his voice just yet. "Where's my girl? Do I have to yell at her, too, or was this stunt all your idea?"
"Help her," he groans. His throat burns like fire, and an awful bitter taste won't leave his tongue. "Please," he grates out, struggling to be understood. He coughs and spits.
"What's wrong?" Big hands close over his shoulders, helping him sit. Antoine. "What's wrong with Maeve?"
Sinbad tries again. "Poison, Firouz said. Please." Fuck, that hurts. His throat feels like he swallowed one of Maeve's fireballs.
"Which poison?" Keely snaps, and Sinbad can hear the fury rising in her impatient voice.
What had Firouz said? He can't remember. The pain in his head has lessened but not disappeared, and it feels like he's thinking through layers and layers of cotton. He shakes his head helplessly and the motion makes him retch again.
Keely exhales an irritated breath. "No time! Hold still."
Oh, no. He's not traveling by magic. Never again. He tries to pull away.
"I'm coming, too," Antoine snaps.
"You absolutely are not! You have no idea where she is; it's not safe. Take care of your girls." Keely grabs hold of the shoulder of Sinbad's shirt.
"Maeve's my girl, too," Antoine argues.
Sinbad tries to pull away from Keely's grasp. He desperately wants to be back with Maeve, but he doesn't think his body can withstand another trip like that. Keely's fist tightens on his sleeve even as he tries to protest and they abruptly disappear, leaving her angry céile arguing with the air.
They arrive in Maeve's tiny closet of a cabin, exactly where Sinbad left. He plops down in the same position even, seated on the edge of Maeve's bunk. He blinks, bracing for more pain, but he feels no worse than he did a moment ago. He's disoriented, and his throat and mouth burn like hell, his headache calmed but not banished. He'll live.
Keely shoulders him roughly aside, pushing into his spot at Maeve's side. She's tiny but strong, and she won't be denied.
The clatter of breaking crockery sounds, and Sinbad turns his head to see Firouz open-mouthed in the doorway, the broken shards of a mug at his feet. He ignores him. Explanations will have to wait. Maeve is more important.
Keely doesn't hesitate, bending to lick Maeve's lips exactly as Firouz did earlier. Sinbad really wishes everyone would stop doing that. Instead of making a disgusted face, she looks furious. "Monkshood."
"Ah, Sinbad…" Firouz begins.
Sinbad coughs. His throat feels like something's eating through it. "Not now," he croaks.
Keely's head snaps to him at the sound of his raw voice. "Do you taste something bitter? Burning?"
"Like fire."
"Anyone else?" she demands.
Sinbad looks at Firouz, who lifts his shoulders helplessly.
"Well, figure it out!" Keely settles herself more securely on Maeve's narrow bunk. "Monkshood's far worse coming up than it is going down. Don't ask me why. You and anyone else with a burning mouth, drink yourselves just this edge of sick on anything but alcohol."
Sinbad doesn't move.
"I'm serious!" she snaps. "You need to wash it out of your body, and I don't mean next week! No ale or wine, but anything else—water, milk, fruit juice, tea, anything. Go!" She points imperiously at the door.
Sinbad stumbles to his feet, his legs weak and shaking, but he's more afraid of Keely's temper right now than he is of falling. He pushes Firouz before him, which seems to wake the scientist from his stupor. He dips up a mugful of water from their stores and drinks, Firouz following his steps but casting uneasy glances back at Maeve's open doorway.
"Who is that?" he demands. "Where did she come from?"
"The library," Sinbad croaks. "Don't ask me how."
"I thought you said you couldn't reach them?" Firouz sounds doubtful.
Sinbad shrugs and drains his mug, though his throat hurts like hell. He breathes, then dips up more. Keely said to drink, so he drinks. He doesn't understand the magic in his bracelet, but it's saved him more than once and now it may have saved Maeve, too.
Sudden, intense green light bursts through Maeve's open doorway. Firouz jerks and makes a noise of protest, starting forward. Sinbad catches his shoulder and shakes his head. "Let them be." He drinks more. Fuck, that hurts. It hurts like no sore throat he's ever had before.
"But that's my patient!"
"You said you couldn't do anything else for her." Sinbad's voice is nearly gone, and he has to struggle to make himself heard. He drinks until his stomach sloshes, uncomfortably close to being sick again, just as Keely ordered.
"But what if she's making things worse?"
"She isn't." This much he knows for sure. Keely would never do anything to harm Maeve, any more than Firouz would.
After a moment, Firouz relents. His eyes remain on Maeve's doorway, the unnatural green light shining through it. "I'm sorry," he says, even as he stares. "I had no idea you were affected, too."
"Don't worry about me." Sinbad's voice is reduced to a whisper. "All I wanted you to do was help Maeve. You did what you could. Is anyone else affected?"
"I don't think so, but I can ask."
Sinbad waves him away. The ship pitches violently beneath them, and he hears Keely yelp and swear. The green light flickers off.
Sinbad is in the doorway in a heartbeat. "It's storming," he says, struggling to clear his throat.
"Because of course it is," Keely grumbles. She shoves the lock of green hair out of her eyes and puts her hands back on Maeve. One rests gently on her chest, just below her collarbone, the other on her belly. Bright green light appears once more. It's in her hands, flowing from her into the unresponsive body on the bed. "How the fuck did you manage to get poisoned on the sea?"
"We're not at sea."
"Feels like it." She grimaces as the ship moves, rising with a tall wave, then dropping fast down the other side. "I'll never laugh at anyone who complains about seasickness again."
"It's not usually so bad." He coughs. "And I don't know how she was poisoned. We all ate the same food."
"Try not to cough. I can help your throat along when I'm done here."
Sinbad opens his mouth to ask whether Maeve is going to be okay, but a wet hand shoves his shoulder. He turns and Rongar pushes past him into the crowded little cabin. He's soaked with rain, and takes in the stranger without so much as a blink. He taps the mug in Sinbad's hand and mimics drinking from it.
"Oh." The water at the inn. "She didn't drink the wine. He offered her water instead." Fury churns Sinbad's gut. They've never seen that innkeeper before in their lives. Why would he poison a member of Sinbad's crew? "It tasted off. She didn't finish it. I just thought that's how their well tasted."
"If she had finished it, she'd probably be dead right now," Keely says flatly.
"Please. Is she going to be okay?"
"Aye. Someone gave her charcoal quickly, which makes my job much easier."
"What about—" He clamps his jaw shut, just barely in time.
Keely glances at him, and he's surprised to see understanding in her sharp green eyes. "Unharmed. If that was their specific aim, your poisoner picked the wrong substance. Plenty of others are good for that, but monkshood's not subtle enough. This was meant to kill."
Sinbad's fists clench at his sides. When this storm passes, he's going to have a talk with that innkeeper. Using his saber. "It makes no sense."
"Does violence ever?"
He leans against the wall as the ship pitches, his knees still a little shaky. Maeve's books slide from her shelf and he lets them fall; picking them up in the middle of a storm is useless. Keely flinches at the crash. Maeve does, too, but she doesn't wake.
"Why didn't we notice this burning when we drank the water?"
"Monkshood's worse coming back up than it is going down, I told you."
He frowns. "I don't think that's what Firouz called it."
She shrugs. "That's what it is. Monkshood. Aconite. Wolfsbane. Devil's helmet. It goes by many names, but its bitter burn is unmistakable."
Yeah, Sinbad's not going to forget this feeling, both the inferno eating away at his throat and the crushing, immobilizing fear of losing Maeve. He steps forward and sits cautiously at the end of her bed, near her booted feet. He knows better than to touch her while Keely's working, but he can't keep away. She looks like a corpse bathed in Keely's green light, an odd sickly, ghostly pallor to her skin, but he can see the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, and he watches it, willing that small movement to comfort him. She's going to be okay. Keely promised, and she's not the type to make promises she can't keep.
"We've never met the man before. There was no reason for this."
Keely glances at him, at Rongar hovering in the doorway. "Wasn't there?"
Maeve's carrying his child, yes, a child Scratch and Rumina would desperately want out of the way if they knew. But how would they know? How would anyone? Maeve said herself that a woman without magic might not even know yet.
Keely sits up, lifting her hands from Maeve's body. The green light fades, and Keely stretches her neck and shoulders, tight from sitting hunched over Maeve's still form.
"Will she wake?"
"When she's ready." Keely strokes Maeve's smooth forehead. "She needs a good night's sleep." The ship pitches, creaking loudly. She grimaces. "Maybe I should take her home for the night."
Sinbad hesitates. He won't be sleeping tonight, regardless. But he doesn't think Maeve will like being moved without her permission.
"You can come, too. You know that."
He shakes his head. "I'm the captain. I can't leave my ship in a storm." He dares to touch Maeve's skin now that Keely's done, just the lightest brush of his thumb along her calf, above the top of her boot. "You do what you think is best," he says, forcing himself to pull back. "I trust you. And thank you."
"For years, she and Dermott were all I had. You know I'd do anything for them. Here." She raises her hand and touches his throat, gentle and sure. The pain doesn't cease, but it eases greatly. He sighs in relief. "I'll take her with me for now and risk her anger in the morning. She'll come back when she's ready."
He nods. He doesn't want her so far away, but Keely can protect her. He won't have time to rest tonight, anyway, monitoring his ship through the storm. He's spent more time than he should down here with her already, instead of with his crew. Doubar won't be happy, but hopefully, at least this time, he'll understand. "Take care of her, then."
"You know we will." Keely slips her hand into Maeve's and reaches for the opal bracelet. It lights green with her magic, and a moment later they disappear.
A/N: Tasting the mouth or the vomit of someone thought to be poisoned actually was an accepted method doctors used, in some cases up until the 20th century, it's not just me being dramatic. Thank goodness for modern medicine!