The Mountain
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)
Setting: Alternate
All standard disclaimers apply
Maeve has no shame about her body, nor should she. She strides through Odhran's palace, swift and angry and stunning, her red hair bright and gleaming, a waterfall of flame-colored curls over her shoulders and down her back. The people they encounter in the corridors stare, and universally duck quickly away. From his place just behind her Sinbad can't see her expression, but he knows it's not a pleasant one. Everyone here is intelligent enough to keep out of her way.
He was never much of a student as a child, but something about Maeve's purposeful strides, the fierce set of her face, reminds him of Caesar's description of the Celts, read to him by firelight late one night when he was young: a terrifying, warlike people who removed their body hair, decorated themselves with tattoos and body paint, and disdained clothes when going into battle so as to confound their enemies. How much of the ancient emperor's words are actually true Sinbad doesn't know, but right now this woman looks every bit the savage warrior Caesar described. She's painted with soot and ash, not pigments, but his sooty handprint on the firm curve of her ass is unmistakable, his red-violet tooth-marks low on the side of her throat bright against the cream of her skin. She's making a flagrant stand. She is not Fae, nor is she the queen's to control. She's Celt, and she's made her choice.
They do not speak; there's nothing to say. He's here for her, no matter what happens, and she knows this. She needs no encouragement. She breathes steadily, softly, her inner fire bright and hot. This is her fight and he won't butt in, but he's with her should she need it. He'll always be with her.
She strides unerringly for a part of the palace unfamiliar to Sinbad. The wooden paneling is richer here, the floors highly polished. The ceilings rise high above him, and Sinbad glimpses carved wooden faces and animal figures adorning the sturdy wooden rafters.
Rounding a corner, they find themselves just outside what must be Odhran's great hall, his throne room. Two guards flank the tall, imposing double doors and Sinbad hears the sound of a crowd within. Lovely. He takes a breath and stiffens his spine. Maeve wants to make a spectacle, so they're making a spectacle. He'll always have her back no matter what, but he wishes he didn't have to do it with just a length of linen wrapped around his waist.
The guards do not try to prevent their passage, and to their credit they try their best to remain stoic, eyes ahead, face devoid of emotion. Sinbad can see the flick of their eyes as they struggle not to stare. He gets it. He doesn't like it, but he gets it. Were he in their place, he'd be staring, too. Maeve is imposingly beautiful, vengefully angry, and his marks on her body, his scent clinging to her skin, say very clearly what they've just been doing. The Fae seem to have a fairly laid-back attitude toward sex, but not that laid-back. The queen is going to be furious when she sees her firestarter, the wild Celt she thinks she tamed. The coming encounter will be an explosion. Both women are uncompromising, Riona an immovable object, Maeve an unstoppable force. He wonders what Firouz would claim science had to say about such a collision.
Maeve shoves her way through the heavy doors, ignoring the guards. The crowd of agitated Fae beyond drops into silence at the slam of the doors, the swift steps of the beautiful, naked woman whose hair is going to start dripping sparks at any moment. They part like magic, allowing her passage as she marches toward the low dais at the far end of the room.
"Do it," she challenges, loud and resonant, stilling with Sinbad just behind her, staring at the queen on the dais. "Name me heir. Right now. I dare you."
She's perfect. Fearless. She taunts her queen, the most powerful person in her world, the woman who has given her everything—everything except freedom. Sinbad can feel the heat of her body, the pulse of her inner fire, her strong, sleek body bare but for streaks of ash. The crowd in the room stares, silent.
Odhran, beside Riona on the low dais, drops his head and rubs his eyes. His heavy, fur-lined leathers sit askew on his body and he looks tired. If Sinbad had more time, he'd feel sorry for the man. "Not now," the clan leader pleads, stepping forward.
Maeve ignores him. Whether she even looks at him Sinbad doesn't know, but her words are only for her queen. "I am Celt," she says, taking a measured step forward, then another. "Born to Celt parents in a mud hut, in a village that no longer exists." She turns her head slightly, staring at Lachlan, the queen's captain of the guard, standing just behind and to the left of his monarch. "I am telling you now, I will not marry as you wish. I will never bear Fae children." Her eyes return to her queen, full of the fire at her heart. "So do it. Name me heir. If you dare."
The queen is furious. Sinbad can see it despite her training, her ability to hide what she feels behind that Fae mask of indifference. Her nostrils widen as she struggles to breathe evenly, her mouth hard and sharp as a blade. "Clothe yourself, firestarter," she says, words dropping heavy and hard as lead weights into the silent room. "You know this is not how things are done. We will discuss much upon return to Aven. Not here, and not thus."
"No." Maeve steps forward again. Sinbad remains close at her back. They can't be parted. He doesn't know what her queen might try to do, but he knows that much. "I am not going back there. And here's as good a place as any. Tell me the truth. Either name me heir, as you intended to do from the first, or set me free."
The queen's dark eyes are hard as flint. "A parent does not give in to a child's hysterics, nor a queen to a subject's sedition. I will deal with you when I am ready, and not by giving you exactly what you want."
"You're not my parent!" Her hair ignites, as Sinbad suspected it would. Not just a spark, but a river of fire flows over her shoulders and down her back, beautiful and bright, her inner fire flaring hot and wild. The crowd around them presses back, drawing away from them. Sinbad stands his ground. Maeve has never hurt him, and he doesn't believe she ever would.
"I am more than your parent," Riona says, her chin lifting as she stares down at her firestarter. "I am your queen. The trick you just pulled on my subjects is unacceptable, firestarter. Unforgivable. You must apologize to Odhran, to his clan, and we will discuss the consequences later."
Trick? Sinbad frowns. She didn't do anything to Odhran, to his people. She never would. She can absolutely be violent when necessary, but not toward the innocent, the defenseless. Besides, "She was just with me, majesty," he says, knowing full well that speaking to the queen is not a good idea right now. "She didn't do anything."
The monarch's cold eyes settle on him, angry and disdainful. "I know very well she was with you. The whole palace knows it." One side of her mouth curls in the faintest grimace of disgust.
Maeve's hair calms to a trickle of sparks as confusion overrides her anger. "We didn't do anything! We never would. You know me better than that."
"I thought I did." The queen stares at her firestarter, full of displeasure. "Beg pardon of Odhran and clothe yourself. Now."
This is a direct order from her monarch, but Maeve does neither. She stares at the clan leader, uncomprehending.
Odhran looks tired. "An apology is not necessary," he says, "but next time think, please, before kindling a fire you refuse to douse. I'm sure many people were quite pleased, but others were not. Some were scared. Her majesty and I have been dealing with the fallout for half an hour or so. Since I, ah, returned to duty." The pale skin above his bushy black beard flushes slightly.
Sinbad still has no idea what the man is talking about. He inches closer to Maeve, unmindful of the sparks still shimmering here and there in her lovely curls.
"I wasn't afraid," someone in the crowd mutters. A few scattered chuckles answer the man.
"Nor I," a woman says. "Though some forewarning might be nice next time, firestarter."
Riona's glare silences the laughter. Odhran looks harried. Sinbad feels for him. This is his palace, his clan, but Riona outranks him. Sinbad suspects Maeve does, too, though she's been polite enough to defer to him while under his roof.
No more. She regards the clan chief through a thin veneer of calm brought on by confusion. Inside, she's still very close to boiling over. Sinbad can feel her fire, the way it tenses and pulses, radiating heat, pressing against him and the rest of the assembled crowd. She can't control it, and despite the trouble it causes he never wants her to. Her inner flame is as beautiful as the rest of her. "I didn't do anything," she says, her voice hard as steel. She's not backing down.
Nor should she. They truly didn't do anything. Maeve is making a shameless spectacle of herself, attempting to provoke a very deliberate, very nasty fight, but her quarrel is only with her queen. Not Odhran, and not his clan.
"You damn well did!" Riona insists.
"If not for her majesty I wouldn't entirely have minded the disruption, to be honest," Odhran says, rubbing the back of his neck, his face still pink. "My wife and I may even get another child out of it, so I shouldn't complain."
Another scattering of chuckles greets his words.
"But in front of the queen was beyond the pale, firestarter."
Sinbad is utterly lost now. Yes, they're walking the palace smelling blatantly of sex to the sensitive noses of the Fae, the marks on their bodies leaving no doubt as to what they were just doing. But that has nothing to do with—
Maeve laughs. A low bark of dry amusement leaves her mouth, and her fire flares again. As that sweet warmth caresses him, Sinbad finally understands.
"The whole palace?" he says, blank with shock.
"The whole damn clan. And I wouldn't be surprised if some very angry werewolves turned up at my gates, too, demanding an explanation. I was warned when her majesty sent you," Odhran says, glancing at Maeve, "but I thought the effect was limited to those in close proximity—a room, maybe. Not all my people at once."
Sinbad inhales slowly. Odhran doesn't seem terribly upset, but Riona is still spitting mad. Maeve is utterly unrepentant. This...is not something he's ever had to talk his way out of before. "You're saying we accidentally lit off a...debauch...that big?"
"I've been dealing with a crowd of very confused citizens for the last half-hour, as I said." Odhran clears his throat.
"I'm...sorry?" Honestly, he isn't. But Riona wants an apology, and Maeve sure as hell isn't going to give it.
"I'm not," she says flatly. "I didn't mean to do it, so as long as nobody was actually hurt, I'm not sorry. I refuse to apologize for something I can't control." Her glare returns to Riona.
"Sorry or not," the clan leader says, "I would like to suggest that we take this...discussion...into the council chamber. There's no need to do this in public."
A mutter of disappointment flows through the crowd, but relief fills Sinbad at Odhran's suggestion. Maeve has the right to do as she pleases, to fight her queen as Caesar said a Celt ought, but that doesn't mean he likes all these people staring at her—at them both.
"If we must do this now, then by all means, behind closed doors," Riona says firmly. It's perhaps the first time Sinbad has ever agreed so thoroughly with her.
"Why?" Maeve challenges. "Are you ashamed of me?" Her tone is derisive as she taunts her monarch. "I'm not. Sinbad isn't."
How could he be ashamed of her? She's fucking perfect. Beautiful beyond words. Powerful and fearless. But that doesn't mean he wants a thronging audience for this fight. The crowd is being fairly respectful for now, but if someone tries to touch her Sinbad will lose it. She can be a spectacle and taunt her queen with this unacceptably blatant display of sexuality all she likes, but another man's hands on her unclothed skin is intolerable.
"At the moment, I certainly am," Riona says, stepping off the low dais, heading for a set of smaller doors at the back of the room. "And I will argue this no more here. Either come to the council chamber or return to Aven; those are your choices."
Sinbad aches to touch his Maeve, to put his hands on that lovely, creamy skin and feel the living heat of her. It settles him more than anything else in the world. More than his ship, the gentle rocking of a calm sea. More than his brother and Dim-Dim at his side. But in front of her queen, with both women so ready to snap, he doesn't quite dare.
He needn't have worried. He might not dare, but Maeve does. She reaches behind, fumbling for his hand. He gives it gladly; her grip is strong and sure. She's not afraid, so he won't be, either. She squeezes tightly, then releases him, following her queen with measured steps.
Sinbad does the same. He can't leave her. She's insistent that this fight is hers to win, but he's not quite confident enough to leave her alone with her queen. If he's honest, deep down he's terrified that if they separate now he'll never see her again.
"Are you sure you want to keep that one?" Odhran murmurs wearily, falling in step beside him. "She's a beautiful creature, but she's dangerous. Is she really worth all this trouble?"
"Yes." A thousand times over. A million. She's it for him. Sinbad watches with amusement as Lachlan gives Maeve a wide berth when he follows his queen into the council chamber. Good. The captain of the guard ought to fear her. "I'll try not to let her set fire to your council room."
"I don't know if even together we could stop her. I'd best come too, though." That council chamber is clearly the last place Odhran wants to be. "At least she hasn't set fire to anything yet."
Except Sinbad's borrowed clothes. The sheets. The bed. But Odhran doesn't know about that yet, and now is probably not the time to tell him.
Angry voices rise from the open door. Sinbad braces himself as he steps inside, Odhran following with a weary little groan. Sinbad feels for him, but this is part of the price of the rescue. His people were saved by fire; he can't expect to walk away without even a singe.
The doors swing closed behind them, shutting out the peering crowd. Two guards flank them. Riona's dark eyes light on Sinbad as he halts just inside the room. She stands behind a huge trestle table, like a king at a high feast. Maybe it's good a table stands between her and her firestarter. Maeve's hands clench at her sides, her body sooty and bare, a perfect barbarian counterpoint to her queen's stiff, righteous displeasure.
"You," the queen snaps, staring at Sinbad. "You were not invited. And you are not permitted in the royal presence wrapped in a rag."
It's more than Maeve's wearing, but Sinbad opts not to point this out. "Your pardon, majesty," he says, choosing courtesy over hostility. He does not have the same power over this woman that Maeve does. He bows as if he wasn't wrapped in a thin linen drying cloth. "My clothes met with an untimely end, I'm afraid."
"Don't you dare back talk me!" she barks. The woman who crumbled bread for birds, who insisted Sinbad walk beside her despite protocol, is long gone.
"He's not. I burned them," Maeve says, matter-of-fact. "They were in the way, and I was impatient."
The queen's eyes narrow. "This is one of the bigger tantrums you've thrown, but it's still a tantrum. You think you can throw a fit and get what you want? The world doesn't work that way, my girl, and it's time you learned. Everyone else may be afraid of you, but I am not." The queen looks levelly at Maeve. Maeve stares back, silently daring her to act.
The queen snaps her fingers. The guards at the doors step forward. Not toward Maeve, but toward Sinbad.
He tenses for this fight, wishing to all the gods for his saber—or at least his clothes. He's at a slight disadvantage and he's not so comfortable fighting naked. Sharp swords so near his unprotected cock make him nervous.
He needn't have worried. Maeve stares down her queen but speaks to the guards. "Touch him and die. It will not be a pretty corpse returned to your mother."
The guards freeze. Sinbad can see the indecision plainly in their faces, their unmoving bodies. They don't know which woman to obey, which woman to fear more.
"Stop this." Odhran lumbers forward and motions his men back with a brusque wave of his burly arm. "There must be a way to settle this dispute without putting my people at risk. Or my house." He glances at Maeve out of the corner of his eye.
"There is no dispute." Riona's expressionless Fae mask is gone, replaced with cold fury. "Mine she has been nearly all her life, and mine she shall stay."
"I'm not yours!" Maeve's fierce bellow is hot and insistent. "Celts belong to no one but themselves!"
"Demons take you hot-blooded Celts!" Riona fires back. "You may have been born to human parents, as you are so determined to point out, but you were raised by me and mine. You are what I decide you are."
"I'm not!" Tiny sparks light once more in Maeve's hair, slithering down the fire-bright strands like a flame along a fuse. They sizzle and drip, a warning as clear as the surge of her inner fire, hot and angry. Sinbad is sure the crowd just outside the doors can feel that flame as it burns bigger, fueled by her fury. "I am not Fae, and I am not your heir! I refuse!"
"Control yourself!" Riona demands. "Your earlier stunt was unacceptable, and I will not have it repeated before me."
Sinbad really hopes Maeve doesn't care to try. He's very unsure he could perform in front of an audience. "You did your best, majesty," he says instead, "I've no doubt. But you can't turn a tiger into a housecat, and tigers don't make good pets."
"My mages certainly can turn a tiger into anything I please," Riona says, "so watch your tongue. Unless you would like a personal demonstration."
No, Sinbad would very much not like that. He doesn't want to spend the rest of his days chasing vermin and licking himself. He swallows hard and wishes fervently for Dim-Dim. Not just for his magical skills, should they become necessary, but for his calm as well, his ability to diffuse tension. Maeve is about to explode, her queen right behind her, and if that happens Odhran really will have something to worry about.
"If you threaten him again, you will not like the consequences." Maeve takes a single step toward the table and her queen. It's a very clear warning.
"You are out of line, firestarter." Her monarch's eyes are coldly angry. "Far, far out of line."
"Good. I should never have been in line in the first place. The line of succession, I mean. I am not suited to rule, and I refuse the responsibility."
"That's not what I mean," Riona says, neatly deflecting Maeve's argument. "Toying with my subjects as you did was unacceptable. Threatening your queen is unacceptable. Even for you."
"If it was so unacceptable, dismiss me from service. Let me go."
"Why would I give you what you want, after all this?" Riona demands.
"Because you don't have a choice," Maeve says.
"I do. A queen always has a choice. You are my subject. My firestarter. You will be my heir if you can learn to curb that temper and control yourself."
Maeve's hair explodes into flame. The guards jump back. Sinbad isn't afraid, but he feels for them. Maeve is furious, her body unconsciously shifting into a fighting stance. "I'm as controlled as I will ever be," she says, shaking with the effort of curbing her fire. "What sort of response did you think you'd get? Joy?" She snorts. "You're smarter than that. That's why you didn't tell me, isn't it? You were afraid."
Riona slams a delicate white palm on the table, the biggest show of emotion Sinbad has seen from her. "I am not afraid of you, girl, and I never will be. Do not mistake my affection for weakness."
Sinbad never would. He has no doubt she loves her firestarter in her own way, but this fight isn't about love. It's about power. Riona needs Maeve. Maeve doesn't need Riona. And the queen has no idea how to handle that.
"Affection? You have none," Maeve accuses, which isn't true, and she herself would likely admit it were she not so furious.
"My affection kept you alive when you were young, and keeps you alive now," the queen says. Her chin lowers as she stares at her firestarter. "My affection brought you everything you have. You are testing it severely, as is that misbegotten sailor. I warned him, and I am warning you now. Do not challenge me. You will not like the consequences."
"He's not your subject, so he's no concern of yours," Maeve says, ignoring the warning. "And he's been honest with me from the beginning—something you failed to do. How dare you? How dare you think you could keep something so vital from me?" The deep hurt underlying her anger bleeds through, and Sinbad sees a flash of unshed tears in her eyes, tears she will never let fall. Not in front of her queen. "I know why you did—because you knew I wouldn't want the crown. Would never accept it. When did you plan to tell me?" she demands. "In your will? After you were buried?"
"My decisions are not for you to question!" Riona insists. She rounds on Sinbad. "All private conversation with the monarch is just that—private. You had no right to divulge it."
"I made no such vow, and never would." He stares at the coldly furious queen, ice to her firestarter's flame. He hadn't wanted to tell Maeve. He didn't tell her, strictly speaking. Their bond is deeper than words. He regrets how she found out, but he doesn't regret that she did. She needed to know what her queen planned.
"Get that man out of my sight," Riona growls. "Throw him in the dungeon while I deal with my firestarter."
"We don't have a dungeon," Odhran says, resigned. "We've never needed one. And this is the chamber we use as a drunk pen on feast nights, so he's already as close to locked up as you're going to get."
"Majesty." A throat clears. Relief floods Sinbad. He doesn't quite dare turn his head, but he knows that voice.
"This is a private matter between my firestarter and myself," Riona says, bristling as Dim-Dim calmly paces forward. "It doesn't concern you, sorcerer."
"In fact it does, I'm afraid, majesty," he says, bowing low. "The boy is mine."
"Your son?" Riona eyes the little man doubtfully.
"As good as." Dim-Dim removes the silvery cape draped over his shoulders. "Calm yourself, my dear," he says, gentle voice soothing as he turns to Maeve. "This sort of fighting can only ever beget resentment and retribution."
But Maeve is in no mood to be placated. "I am Celt," she says firmly, staring at Riona. Her fist tightens. "This is how we solve problems."
"And that is one very good reason why few Celts live to be my age. Come, child. There are other ways to get your point across."
"I am fire," she insists implacably, still refusing to look at him. "Fire does not bend, you said so yourself."
"No," he agrees. "Fire is not malleable. It does not bend. But it does adapt. It snakes through root systems and erupts miles from its source. It flies, sparks on the wind. It survives, tiny but living, in the heart of banked coals, until new fuel comes to sustain it."
Finally, slowly, she moves. Her head turns, hair a waterfall of crackling flame, and looks at the little old man. "I won't leave him."
"I would never ask you to," Dim-Dim assures her. He offers the cape, holding the soft silver fabric aloft with both hands.
"What can a poor sailor give you that I could not?" Riona demands, bristling at Maeve's insistence.
"Freedom!" Maeve's attention snaps back to her ruler and her inner fire flares once more. "Honesty. Love. Take your pick," she snarls. Sinbad's heart sinks. If Dim-Dim can't calm her, no one can.
"She has a point, majesty," Dim-Dim says softly.
"Monarchs are not permitted freedom. I myself have never known it."
"I'm not a monarch!" Maeve growls. She's a wild creature about to turn on her handler. "I'm Celt! I was born in a mud hut and nothing you say, nothing you do, can change that!"
"Change it, no. But I have made it all but irrelevant."
"Not. To. Me." The words force their way out through clenched teeth.
"Breathe, child," Dim-Dim says. "Bank the flame for now. You'll find this discussion easier, I promise."
Sinbad is doubtful, but he's wise enough to keep his mouth shut. He doesn't know that there's any room for compromise between the two women, the monarch and her acolyte, no longer a child and unwilling to play the part any longer.
"I'm fire," Maeve says implacably.
"Be fire," Dim-Dim urges. "Don't deny that part of you. But be human, too. Canny. Logical. You are both in one. You can inhabit both at the same time, just as you are human and Fae at the same time."
"I'm not!" She rounds on the little sorcerer, outraged.
"You are," he says gently, undaunted by her fury, both literal and figurative flames crackling around her. "You were made by humans, borne by a human, but shaped by your environment. Your queen cannot remove the Celt from you, but by the same token you cannot remove the Fae. And that's a good thing, though you don't believe me now."
"I won't believe you ever."
"We'll see." He shakes the cape in his hands gently. "Come, my dear. Calm your hair, and let's see if we can salvage something of this."
To Sinbad's shock, she does. The flames in her hair die down, slowly receding back into her body, part of the inner fire at her heart. She considers the cape for a long moment before stepping forward, allowing Dim-Dim to reach up and place it gently around her shoulders.
"There," the old sorcerer says, beaming at her as she wraps the soft material around herself. "You are multilingual, yes?"
She nods wordlessly.
"You can learn to switch between the parts of yourself as easily and naturally as you switch tongues. It takes time, practice, and diligence, but it is possible. It's futile to try to burn away that which you no longer wish to be, and unnecessary besides. You can be all things, all your disparate parts, as occasion calls."
Big brown eyes watch him, wary but curious, her fire, for the moment, dampened. "I don't know how."
The old man smiles. She's head-and-shoulders taller than him, but he reaches up and touches her cheek fondly. "I will teach you."
It's an oddly tender moment. Sinbad feels Maeve's fire flicker. She's been unsure of his mentor from the first, but he can feel it now as she accepts the old man fully—his wisdom, and his inherent goodness. By all rights she should be wary, considering the mess with Riona, but for whatever reason, she isn't. And he's beyond grateful for it.
Dim-Dim steps back and clears his throat. "By your leave, majesty—this is a council chamber. Let's sit and see if we can come to some agreement."
"Sit, if you will," Riona says, the icy, impassive mask of the Fae firmly in place once more. "But I am not leaving this mountain without my firestarter."
"We'll see," Dim-Dim says, just as gently as he said it to Maeve a moment before.
"Odhran, you stay," the queen says, drawing up her own chair instead of waiting for Lachlan to hold it for her. "I want a witness."
"As you wish," the big man says, sounding weary. He drops into a chair at her side.
One corner of Sinbad's mouth flickers in amusement when he notices that the queen does not give Lachlan permission to sit. The captain of the guard stands, silent and unhappy, behind and to her left. That the man would be a likely candidate for Maeve's hand, yet the queen doesn't care for his input in this debate, tells Sinbad all he needs to know about Lachlan's role in the hypothetical succession.
A hypothetical succession that will never happen if Sinbad has anything to say about it. He draws a chair close to Maeve's as she settles across the table from her queen, Dim-Dim on her other side.
"You are not necessary," Riona says, staring him down. "Just because Odhran has no dungeon to drop you in doesn't mean you are welcome here."
"He's necessary to me." Maeve is as immovable as her monarch.
"And me, I'm afraid, your majesty," Dim-Dim says from Maeve's other side. "Despite his looks, he's quite intelligent."
"A wagon achieves movement with four wheels," Riona objects. "We do not need a fifth."
"And a chariot achieves it with two, but in this case leaving you alone with your firestarter would be disastrous for all involved. I'm afraid I must insist on my boy. You may invite your captain of the guard, if you wish to even the numbers."
Irritated but retaining that icy veneer, Riona gestures impatiently for Lachlan to sit. He does, as silently angry as his queen.
"I wish to have done with this, not drag it out," Riona says. "The issue is simple—a binding legal matter. My firestarter belongs to me. She swore an oath. That cannot be undone."
Maeve draws breath to snarl at her queen but Dim-Dim touches her hand lightly as it rests, tightly clenched, on the top of the table. "In fact it can, majesty. You can release her, and to my mind you should. No good has ever befallen a kingdom where the monarch and the heir are at odds."
"No good has ever befallen a kingdom where the monarch allows herself to be circumscribed by a subject."
"I don't believe that is what either Maeve or Sinbad intends," Dim-Dim says.
"It amounts to the same thing, whether they intend it or not. The final say rests with me, not with her. To claim otherwise is a direct challenge to my authority."
"I'm not challenging your authority," Maeve says tightly. "I don't want it. Not your power, or your kingdom. If I really wanted to challenge you, I'd leave. Now. Without seeking permission."
"You know my soldiers would follow."
"The world is wide," Maeve says, her inner fire flaring once more. "Bigger than even you can control."
Sinbad touches her gently, her skin hot through the soft material of Dim-Dim's cape. He feels out of his depth. He's not really the type to sit at a negotiating table, especially not while clad only in a scrap of linen. But he's not leaving her. He has every faith in her, and in Dim-Dim, but he can't leave. The fear of losing her is still very much with him, the fear that if he walks away he'll never see her again.
"You swore a vow," Riona insists. "An oath of fealty and service. I do not release you. Don't make me say it again."
"I was sixteen! Two years too young, and I had no idea what I was vowing! You never said anything about becoming your heir!"
Riona looks at her steadily. "Would you be content to stay were you not named heir?"
Maeve breathes softly beside him. "No," she admits.
"Then it doesn't matter what I intend to do with you, or when I intended to tell you."
Except it does. Even at sixteen, Sinbad doubts Maeve would have agreed to become Riona's heir. Her secret weapon, yes—a deadly power disguised as a beautiful lady of the court, a special favorite of a doting queen. But not a princess. Never that. The gilded cage Maeve occupies now is a large one and she's let out from time to time, as when she was sent here. By contrast, the cage Riona wishes to put her in as heir and later ruler is smaller by far. Too small for the wild force that she is. Too small for her fire, and her heart.
"I swore faith and truth," Maeve says, slamming her palm down on the table, "and I have never once faltered. You swore, too, when you accepted my oath. To honor and protect me. To reward valor with honor, service with service. I have the right to hold you to your oath, as well. Sinbad and I just saved countless lives. Your subjects, your kingdom, possibly the entire world. All of us. And in saving the lives of the lowland humans, Odhran and Sorcha giving them shelter and aid, we've opened a door on the possibility—just the possibility—of a new beginning. Reconciliation. That story is not mine to write; it's theirs. And yours. For me, do as you vowed." She inhales deeply. Her eyes glow with conviction, and in this moment Sinbad sees exactly what Riona must see—a woman who would have made a formidable queen. And a woman who wants nothing more than to be set free. "Reward our valor with honor. Our service with service. As you vowed. Let me go."
On Maeve's other side, Sinbad can see Dim-Dim's beaming face, his pride in his new student shining bright. In this moment, Sinbad has absolute faith that his mentor was right: Maeve will be able to learn how to reconcile all the disparate parts of herself and switch between them when necessary. That beautiful fire will never die, but it doesn't have to be an inferno all the time.
But only if Riona will let her go.
The queen's impassive mask cracks. Slowly, slowly, the beautiful woman shakes her head. "I can't. I'm sorry, child. Truly. But I can't." She's always looked ageless to Sinbad, but as the schooled, emotionless facade drops away he sees what decades of rule, of worry and responsibility, have done to her. It's no magical transformation—she doesn't suddenly sprout wrinkles like a gnarled old tree. But her eyes shine dully, old and weary. "You just stated yourself the reason I can't let you go. Who else could have stopped those creatures, freed my people? What about the next time? The time after that?"
And, though he knows the queen loathes him and would absolutely take his head if she thought it would get her her firestarter back, Sinbad can't help but feel sorry for her. She's lived her whole life with the burden Maeve now rejects, and she never had a choice. She didn't want it, either. She gave up the chance to marry and bear her own heirs to protect her niece's right to the crown, preventing the threat of a civil war over the throne. But when that niece died childless, she was left with nothing. No close relatives and no one she felt she could entrust her people to. Maeve must have seemed the answer to all her prayers, a canny, capable, powerful girl in need of guidance, one with the strength to rule such a vast, disjointed kingdom. He regrets that he's causing this strife, but he can't give Maeve up any more than her queen can.
And maybe he doesn't have to.
"What if we can compromise?" he says slowly, unsure if speaking at all is wise. Riona doesn't like him and may not listen to anything he says. But he can't walk away from this mountain alone. "What if we vow—both of us—that if another emergency occurs, we'll come to your aid? Just as Maeve would have anyway, if she stayed with you. With your magic, distance is no real barrier."
Maeve is watching him with those gorgeous, honey-dark eyes. Maybe he should have asked her first, but he honestly doesn't know what else to do. He can't give her up, and he can't let her break her oath.
"No," Riona says. At least she's speaking to him instead of demanding that he be placed in Odhran's nonexistent dungeon. "I need my heir."
"You have any number of capable subjects," Maeve says. "Lachlan would gladly accept the challenge."
Riona discounts this without even looking at the man at her side. "He hasn't your strength. No one does."
"Give him help, then. Not just advisors, but...councilors. Or senators, as they had long ago in Rome. A way to share out both the power and the burden of it," Sinbad says.
"That would be chaos. And it did not end well for Rome."
"Perhaps not as chaotic as you might think," Dim-Dim says gently. "It's not a bad idea. You know what they say about absolute power."
Riona's eyes darken. "I am incorruptible."
"I wouldn't dream of suggesting otherwise. But you can't guarantee the same of those who come after you. You can try to pick the best heir, but you can't foresee their choice. Or the choice after that." Dim-Dim smiles gently. "Let the girl go, majesty. If you force her to leave him, she'll never forgive you. She'll either break her oath or serve you resentfully and with caprice. Either way, you won't win. Let her go and she will continue to protect your people when the need arises—faith and truth, just as she vowed."
"It's that or nothing. I'm going, either way," Maeve says evenly. Her inner fire burns strong and bright. She's unafraid and unmoving, refusing to back down. Whether this is part of her Celt heritage or something she learned at Riona's knee doesn't really matter. It's part of her, regardless.
The queen stares at her firestarter, still angry but also tired. She knows she's caught. Forcing Maeve to break her oath might be the better choice for Riona's pride but it isn't the better choice for her kingdom, and for Riona the kingdom comes first. It will always come first. She breathes silently, deep breaths that fill her chest, her shoulders rising ever so slightly with each inhalation.
"You will come when I call," she says, tone flat. "All of you. With all haste."
"So long as you only call in dire need," Maeve says. "I won't be summoned incessantly without necessity."
Riona inclines her head.
Maeve turns. Her eyes find Sinbad's, tawny-sweet, full of questions. He's served many a ruler before but never sworn an oath to any. He doesn't want to—this commitment will be for life. But he'll do anything to keep this woman. And, strange as it may sound, he trusts Riona. He doesn't like her, but he trusts her. All she wants is to protect her people and, really, what else is a monarch for? He nods slowly at Maeve's searching gaze.
"I think," she says, taking his hand as she turns to her queen, "that we have a deal."
As the door of the council chamber shuts firmly behind them, Sinbad feels like weeping. Or shouting. Mostly he feels like taking his girl back to bed and not resurfacing for at least a week. He can't handle another day like today, the fear, the absolute certainty that he would lose her forever. He wraps his arms around her as she stands, triumphant and radiant, draped only in Dim-Dim's cape, skin still streaked with soot. She's his now. For good.
She grips him back, arms hard on his shoulders, her delicious warmth bleeding through him. "Not bad, sailor," she says, speaking softly into the side of his throat. Her voice shakes; he pretends not to notice. "I knew you were tough. I never knew you were smart, too."
"It's been known to happen from time to time." He kisses her sooty forehead. "Mine now, leannán. For real this time."
She nods wordlessly. No other reply is necessary.
Beside them, Odhran stretches tense, weary muscles. "Hospitality is a sacred trust," he says in his gruff voice, "and I would never breach it. But I would diplomatically suggest that you and your crew might like to depart sooner rather than later. I have never known Riona to break an agreement, but I've also never seen her so angry."
She has every right to be angry. Sinbad has stolen her greatest treasure. He takes the clan chief's suggestion without offense. "It's not the first time we've had to duck out of a party early, and it won't be the last. But I, uh, need my clothes first."
Odhran laughs. It's a full-torso belly laugh, deep and roaring. It releases some of the tension in Sinbad, too, and he laughs along when the clan chief pounds his bare back. "Let's go rescue your clothes from the laundresses, then, and gather your men. I'll send you down the mountain with a key so you don't have to brave the snow."
"Not me," Maeve says, gently disentangling herself from Sinbad's arm. His hand reflexively clamps down, seeking to keep her close. What does she mean, not her? He's not letting her out of his sight. Not until they're on board the Nomad, wind in their sails. Possibly not until they reach Constantinople. Or Baghdad. Or maybe never again.
"Yes, you," he says, managing to catch a handful of silvery material, though not the girl inside it. "I'm marrying you as soon as possible."
She eyes him warily. "Celts don't marry."
"My people do. So do the Fae."
Odhran roars with laughter once more. "He's got you there, firestarter."
Maeve makes a face. "So convince me. I may be open to negotiation." She eyes him. "Although the last time we made a deal, I never got what I was promised."
She will. He swears it. Just as soon as they're safe. "The sooner we get going, the sooner you'll get what you want."
She kisses his mouth lightly. "I need to take my trunk back to Aven and pick up what I'm bringing with me. Don't worry. Sorcha has a key; she'll help me. I'll meet you at your ship before sunset."
Sinbad doesn't like this idea. Not at all. He trusts Maeve and he trusts Sorcha, but he's not ready to just let her go like that. Especially not to Aven, which is exactly where her queen wants her.
But he can't forbid her. This isn't the time for a fight, and that's what it will turn into if he tries. So, as reluctant as he is to leave her, he kisses her forehead, her mouth, and makes himself let go. "Before sunset."
"Before sunset. I promise." She turns and strides swiftly down the corridor, still clad only in Dim-Dim's cape.
"Come on," Odhran says, waving Sinbad and Dim-Dim down the hallway. "Let's gather your men and get you safely on your way."
Sinbad has never been gladder to swing himself aboard the Nomad. He inhales deeply the smell of wood and water, rope and tar and canvas, swearing he'll never leave it for so long again. They're only in a river, not the sea, but he doesn't care. Cold fresh water or warm salt, he's just glad to feel the gentle bob of waves beneath him once more. He runs his palm along the railing as his men finish loading the supplies the grateful people of Ralgorōd pressed on them. With a hold full of food, fresh water beneath them, they won't have to stop until they reach the Black Sea. Maybe not even then.
Clouds swallow the sky, even here at the base of the mountain, and he wished they didn't. He wants to see the sun, feel its warmth on his skin. He's been up north for far too long. He won't grumble like Doubar does about the cold, but he misses his world, too. The heat, the light. He will never regret this trip, considering what it brought him. But he's ready to go home.
Just as soon as he has his girl back.
He breathes the wind, searching for her smoke-sweet scent. She's like the sun. The touch of her skin kept him warm while on the mountain, the memory of her light kept him alive while under it. Now she's his for good, for keeps, and he knows that makes him the luckiest bastard alive. Lachlan couldn't keep her. Neither could her queen. The werewolves wanted to know if he felt he was deserving of her love, her loyalty. He knows he's not, but he's going to do everything in his power to be.
"That's the last of it, little brother," Doubar says, pounding his back as he draws up beside him. The slap twinges the healing wounds in his gut, but he refuses to complain. He has his brother. Dim-Dim. His men, his ship, his life. He's on the mend and Maeve will soon be here with him. What more could he ask for?
"These people were generous," he says, thinking not only of the hold full of food but the bounty in gold as well.
"We did what they asked and more. Considering what we saved them from, and the opportunity for a new beginning with their neighbors up the mountain, I'd say they got their money's worth."
Sinbad chuckles as he watches the sails unfurl. Sunset is closing in. He aches for it—to have Maeve close beside him once more, feel the flare of her fire when he touches her skin. Being apart is beyond unsettling. He needs her back so they can put this chapter of their lives behind them and start afresh—together.
"I'm sorry, by the way," he says, glancing sideways at his brother. "For that, ah, disturbance today. We didn't mean to do it."
Doubar laughs loudly. "Don't fret, brother. Dim-Dim was with us and managed to shield us." He snorts. "Well, mostly. Rolly's daughter may have a little brother before too long. And Firouz was off somewhere and got pulled in. Ask him sometime if he still disbelieves in fairies. The color he turns trying to answer—I don't think it has a name."
Sinbad can't help laughing. Rolly and his wife having another child very soon was inevitable, so he refuses to take any blame for it. And Firouz could use a little loosening up, so as long as there are no hard feelings he bears no guilt.
"I do have to ask...is that going to be a regular occurrence?" Doubar looks at him. "That's my little sister now, and I don't want things getting awkward."
"Have peace," Dim-Dim says, chuckling as he steps toward them, holding a round of dark rye bread. Sinbad ordinarily does not like rye, but right now he'll eat anything that isn't barley. "What happened today was triggered by an unusual set of events. It won't likely continue to happen, so long as the circumstances are not repeated."
Sinbad rubs the back of his neck. "Don't fuck her, or make her mad, when she's inside my head. Don't worry, we learned that lesson."
"Inside your head?" Doubar frowns. "I know she's powerful, but I didn't know she could read minds. I'm not so sure I like that."
"She can't," Sinbad assures him. "Just mine. And only, as Dim-Dim said, during certain...circumstances." He still isn't sure how she manages to do it, but he's done questioning anything about her magic anymore. It does as it pleases, as her queen said. It's part of her, like those perfect lips, those bright red curls. She can't help it, and he never wants her to.
"Very little has been written about fire-children, and as I said before, I am no expert. But I believe she can learn control. It's a question of working with her magic, not against it. I think this is where her previous training failed. Fire just can't be tamed the way common magical talent can."
"Will you stay?" Sinbad asks, watching his mentor carefully. "Will you teach her?"
"Of a certainty. I will do what I can. A trip to Basra, to consult with Cairpra, would not go amiss, either."
"Basra it is." Sinbad is happy to go wherever they need to go, and he suspects Maeve and Cairpra will get along well. Quarters will be tight with Dim-Dim, Tetsu, and Maeve aboard in addition to his crew, but it shouldn't be too bad. Maeve will be staying with him, his captain's cabin now hers as well. They've never had a woman aboard as more than a temporary passenger and it will take some getting used to, but despite her dislike of water he's confident she'll love sailing once she gets the hang of it.
"You really ought to warn the girl," Doubar says as the afternoon deepens toward sunset. "If you haven't already. Does she know what it actually means to sail with you?"
"You mean that anything can happen?" And usually does. "She's smart. I think she'll have figured that out by now."
"Even so. It's only polite to warn her about something like Rumina's grudge. Plunkett's grudge. Scratch's grudge…" He ticks them off on his meaty fingers.
"Okay, I get it. I'll warn her. But it won't scare her off." If anything, hearing about the many enemies he's made over the years will only fuel her desire to join him.
"And one more thing. Even if you're not sparking off full-blown orgies, try to keep the noise down? I realize I'll be getting nieces and nephews before long, but I don't need to hear it happening."
That's something Sinbad can't and won't promise. "I wonder if Firouz can come up with something to dampen sound?"
"At the very least some insulation between the walls," Doubar agrees. He looks up at the overcast sky. There will be no glorious sunset, but an orange cast to the clouds heralds the arrival of dusk.
Sinbad knows what the big man is thinking without words. Maeve said she would be here by sunset. Time is slipping away, sand through the hourglass, and she isn't here. He refused to let himself worry earlier, but the anxiety in his gut ratchets higher with each passing minute. He needs her. More than he's ever needed anyone in his life.
"That girl adores you," Doubar says softly, attempting to be reassuring. "She won't run. I doubt she runs from anything."
Women run all the time, but usually from arranged marriages, not men they love. And Sinbad knows she loves him. With the bond they share, she couldn't hide it even if she wanted to. So if she's not here, something must be wrong. Sunset's closing in fast. Despite his insistence that he won't worry, his heart hasn't beat in proper rhythm since he let her go. He feels like he can't get a good breath. What if her queen overpowered her somehow? Forced her to stay? Took away her key, perhaps? She could even now be stuck a world away, on the western edge of the continent, unable to make her way back to him.
If that's the case, he vows, he'll find her. He won't rest until he does. He'll climb this mountain again and search every inch of Odhran's clan. He'll sail west, as fast as the Nomad can fly, to make his way to Aven and get her back. He wants to trust Riona, especially since he's vowed to come to her aid should she call, but he knows how angry she is and how much she did not want to release her firestarter. Maeve would never just abandon him, so what is he to think?
"She said she was fetching her things, didn't she?" Doubar leans cautiously against the ship's railing. The Nomad is sturdy, but he's taken a tumble before. "Typical girl." He laughs. "You did warn her that there's precious little room for baubles, didn't you?"
Sinbad brushes his brother's attempt at teasing reassurance aside. "She's not like that." Doubar knows she's not like that. Sinbad doesn't know what was so important in Aven that she had to use a key to go get it, but he knows she won't appear with a flock of servants carting loads of junk. She's not that kind of girl. Yes, she's used to luxuries he'll never be able to give her, but she doesn't need them. Given the choice, she doesn't want them. He's seen her gowned in velvet in a gleaming palace, and clad in charred leather on the side of a mountain. She was far happier filthy and free; even Doubar knows it.
"Don't fret." Dim-Dim offers hunks of his pungent rye loaf around. Sinbad shakes his head. He's not hungry, and he won't be hungry until Maeve is back with him where she belongs. "She said she'll be here, she'll be here." Dim-Dim bites into the dark bread and stretches his arms. "These old joints much prefer the lower altitude off the mountain."
"You shouldn't have gone up it in the first place," Sinbad says, but there's no rancor in his voice and everyone knows he means none of it. He and Maeve would both probably have died on that mountain without the old man, and even if they didn't, he doubts they would have achieved any sort of deal with the Fae queen without him.
"My joints don't care, but the rest of me is glad to be off that mountain," Doubar agrees. "And it will be gladder to be rid of this confounded cold."
Sinbad can't argue with his brother. The temperature at the river isn't exactly warm, but it's warmer than it was on the mountain. There's no snow, which is a blessing. He's grateful, and grateful that he'll soon be sailing south again. He's not a cold-weather man any more than Doubar is.
Tetsu emerges from below deck, black eyes calm as he nods at Sinbad. They're taking him as far as Constantinople, where he'll likely change ships, ready for whatever new adventure the wind brings him. Sinbad wishes him well. He's sure they'll meet again soon.
The piercing cry of a hawk sounds from above. Sinbad looks up, surprised to see a bird drop swiftly to alight on the yardarm. He frowns.
"Maybe he wants to come with us," Doubar says, chuckling. "I'd leave this accursed weather too, were I him."
The bird ruffles its feathers and settles. Sinbad doubts it will stay once they start moving. Which they can't until he knows one way or another what's happened to Maeve. Whether he'll have her back at his side, where she belongs, or if he has to cross the world to rescue her. He'll do it. She climbed a mountain on foot to rescue him. Faced down werewolves and demons, and saved his crew besides. He'd owe her that much even if he didn't love her.
Which he does. More than anything in this world. She's it for him. He was willing to give up the sea for her, willing to give up everything he has. Luckily, she'd never ask him to.
"Oh, good, Dermott found you."
Maeve. He whirls, relief crashing through him. She's here. She's fine. He reaches instinctively for a line to toss her, and the image that greets his eyes stops his movements. His mouth drops open.
"What?" She stands on the dock, nearly level with him, just across the railing. She glances down at herself, then back up. "My leathers got burnt up, remember?"
Yeah, he remembers, and he's honestly not sure what he expected her to don instead, but this...isn't it.
She laughs at his expression. "Permission to come aboard, captain? You're the one who told me to wear skirts like other women, if I recall."
His hand numbly tosses her the line. "Those aren't skirts like other women."
"Are so. Celt women." She grabs the rope and swings herself effortlessly aboard. Maybe teaching her to sail won't be so difficult after all.
The boots on her feet are scuffed and worn to hell, an old pair kept for emergencies, and he clearly sees the hilt of a familiar knife strapped to the inside of one. She's an arm's length away, so close he can feel the warmth of her skin, the heat of her inner fire, and fuck, she's gorgeous. But he maybe kind of wants to take back his comment about skirts. Especially if she's going to be around other people. Other men. His crew are one thing, but anyone else. She's dressed in thin, fine white linen, voluminous sleeves clasped close to her biceps and forearms with thin bands of embroidery. The neckline isn't so much a neckline as...well, a chestline, dipping down between her breasts, giving him an enticing eyeful of firm, creamy flesh. The skirt rides high on her thighs, baring nearly all of her slim, muscled legs. A soft brown leather overskirt covers the fine linen, cinched tight at the waist, keeping her from looking like a dewy nymph. She's still all warrior...just a sexier one than she was even in tight leather trousers. The hilt of a sword is visible over her shoulder, blade strapped firmly to her back.
And he can't stop himself. Relief fills him as he feels the heat of her sweet fire once more. He takes a step forward and captures her mouth firmly with his, arms snapping tight around her waist, pinning her hard against him. The wounds in his gut twinge, and he doesn't care. The hot-sweet taste of her tongue, smoke and honey, fills him. Nothing else matters.
Her arms slip around his shoulders, holding him as tightly as he holds her. She kisses him back, thoroughly unashamed as Doubar and Rongar laugh, even Tetsu joining in.
"Boys," Dim-Dim says, but there's no remonstrance in his tone. Sinbad doesn't care. Let them laugh. He has everything in the world right here.
When she finally pulls back enough to breathe, those honey-dark eyes gleam wickedly. "How long until you take me downstairs?"
Not long if she keeps looking at him like that. He nips her lip, the first part of her he fell in love with. "I was afraid you'd been kidnapped by your queen. Odhran might not have a dungeon but I'm sure she does."
"Never. I'm more than a match for her captain of the guard." Maeve smiles wickedly.
She definitely is. Sinbad allows himself a twinge of pity for the iceman—one final thought before he dismisses the man from his mind forever. The guy had no idea how far out of his league he was aiming. He may become king after all, if Riona decides, but he'll never be the sort of monarch Maeve could have been.
"I'm sorry I took so long," she says, her palm hot on his cheek. She kisses him again, hot and sweet. So beautiful. Now his for good. Convincing her to marry him might take some time, but she loves him. And he's never letting her go again. "Dermott was being a pain."
"Dermott?"
She nods up at the mast. "My boy. I told you I had to go back to Aven to get my things."
"I didn't realize your things included a pet." He steps back, reluctantly letting her out of his arms so he can look at her again. She has a small pouch and a leather falconer's gauntlet on her belt, sword strapped to her back, but nothing else. No trunks, no sacks. Apparently she travels light, even when she's not climbing mountains.
"He's yours?" Doubar stares up at the little brown hawk doubtfully. "We've never had a pet aboard."
She laughs. "I don't like dogs and I knew I couldn't bring a horse," she says, "but Dermott doesn't take up much room and he looks after himself."
"He's trained to fight, isn't he?" Sinbad asks, already knowing the answer. "Not just hunt?"
"Aye," she says proudly. "He's a good boy." The bird on the yardarm ruffles his feathers, as if he knows his mistress is talking about him.
Why is Sinbad not surprised that her pet is a dangerous beast? "That's it?" he says, searching her eyes. "No more surprises? No man-eating tiger in tow? No evil uncle hell-bent on your destruction?"
"Nope." Her arms slip around his shoulders. He holds her close, the warmth of her fire sinking into his skin, tingling deliciously. Fuck, she's beautiful like this. The excitement in her eyes. She's as ready for this new adventure as he is. "What you see is what you get, sailor. No tiger, no evil uncle. No family at all."
"No family before," he corrects. "Now you have me—and more brothers than you'll know what to do with." She'll brawl with them, most likely. That's what brothers do, after all, and she is a Celt.
Her smile is bright as the southern sun. "You already know perfectly well what you're getting into. I have a lot of magic I'm terrible at controlling. My queen is angry as hell at me. And I can't swim."
"A situation we'll rectify as soon as we reach water warm enough," Sinbad vows. The temperature of the water means nothing to her, but it does to him.
She groans, rolling her head back on her supple neck. "Can't we skip that part?"
"No.." He's uncompromising on this. The water has taken too much from him already and he will not let it take her, too. "Absolutely not. I run a casual ship but this isn't an area where we can compromise."
"I hate water."
Yes, he's well aware, though it is a little funny that she's standing on the deck of a ship as she says so. "I know you do. But I will not lose you that way. I refuse."
"Fire and water are inimical," she argues.
Usually. But his soul belongs to the sea, his heart to her, and somehow he manages. "You went into a frozen lake to save me. You like to bathe. Learning to swim won't kill you."
"I don't like to bathe. It's just necessary living with the Fae. And I'm a terrible student."
Her grumbling protests actually delight him; he wonders if she knows. Because she's here, standing so close he can put his hands on her if he likes, bickering with him without rancor. He loves it. And he suspects she's actually a very good student, provided she has the right motivation. "The faster you learn, the sooner you can be done with it."
She grumbles but offers no further actual protests, and he doesn't really care if she wants to grouse as long as she learns. He doesn't like letting anyone aboard his ship who can't swim, and that goes double for her. Their first real fight was about this very subject and his feelings haven't changed. He lost Leah as a child and it changed him forever. He will not survive the loss of this woman.
"You're gonna owe me way more than a massage if you expect me to willingly get in that river."
"The river's too cold for lessons. Not for you, I know, but for me. We'll head for warmer seas first." He doesn't like the necessity of this, but neither does he have a choice.
"If I can be on your ship for a trip down the river without drowning, why do I have to learn at all?"
"I can't guarantee you can make it down the river without drowning." He eyes her cautiously. "Would you consider staying below deck until we reach warmer water?"
Her dark eyes flare with fire and she tosses her hair behind her shoulders. "Like some concubine? I don't fucking think so."
"Well, the other alternative's being leashed to the mast."
Did he say there was fire in her eyes before? He was wrong. Now there is. And in her hair, too. Sparks sizzle along those pretty curls, beautiful and dangerous. "You absolutely will not leash me!"
"I just want to keep you safe." That's all he ever wants. He knows protecting her from everything is a fool's errand, but not taking simple precautions is just inviting disaster.
"Then you'd better find another way to do it." She glares. "You want kids. How do you keep them from falling overboard, huh?"
"By leashing them to the mast." She doesn't want to hear it, but it's the truth. A long rope that gives them the run of the deck but keeps them from toppling overboard. It's how fishermen's families survive. It's how his family will have to survive unless Firouz can come up with an alternative.
"I don't even leash Dermott," she says, flicking her eyes quickly to the little hawk up above. "You are not leashing me or my kids."
Kids are a long way off, so this isn't the time to fight about them. They have plenty of time for that. Maeve isn't pregnant and she doesn't particularly want to be, which means they can try watching her cycles and pulling out until the dice eventually catch up with them. That's not his concern right now. "You're a surefooted adult," he says, trying to be rational. "I'm not worried about you accidentally falling overboard. I'm worried about a storm washing you there, especially so far north in winter."
The sparks in her hair die down and she resettles, calmer now that he's acknowledged her ability to take care of herself. "You're not leashing me," she says. "But if a storm comes, I'll agree to go below. Until I can swim. How's that?"
It's going to have to be good enough, because he doesn't think she'll give him any more. "That's fair, leannán."
She smiles. "You still have no idea what that word means."
"It means you." What else does he need to know?
Her low, sweet laugh buzzes through him and she steps close, kissing his mouth, her anger forgotten. "Sorcha says you're cockier than I am. She may just be right." Her fingers touch his skin, feathering lightly down the plane of his cheek. "But gods, I love you."
He loves her, too. So much. "Leannán, I adore you. But Doubar suggested you might want to know what you're about to get into."
"In what way?" She glances across the deck where Doubar and Rongar are raising the anchor. They clearly want to leave the north as quickly as possible. "I know you, Sinbad."
She does. Better than anyone. But she doesn't know everything about him. About his past. "I just mean that...well, you know I do my share of adventuring."
"Yeah. Adventuring. Fun." She nudges his nose with hers.
Yes. And he knows she's no stranger to it, nor to hard work either. But Doubar's right—she ought to be warned. "The thing is, no matter how much good I try to do, sometimes it ends up biting me in the ass. Or pissing off dangerous people. You warned me not to get kidnapped by monsters again. In this line of work, I can't make any promises. And there are a number of people who would very much like me dead."
"Such as?" Her honey eyes gleam.
"You want the whole list?"
"Who's at the top?"
That one's easy. "An evil sorceress named Rumina."
"Why? Did you jilt her?" Maeve laughs. "I could see you starting something with an evil sorceress and getting in over your head. You picked up with me awfully quickly, after all."
"Kismet." He kisses the tip of her nose, the curve of her adorable, mocking smirk. "I couldn't resist you." She couldn't resist him either, and she knows it. "And I didn't jilt her. I killed her father. He deserved it, but she doesn't see it that way."
"Ah." She bites his lip, sharper than a nip, then pulls back. Those beautiful eyes shine bright. She's happy—the happiest he's ever seen her. She's free. A little ball of flame appears in her palm and she tosses it playfully. "Evil sorceress, you say? Bring it on."
THE END
A/N: A huge thank you to everyone who has read and commented and come with me on this journey! After a week or so I'll be deleting all the author's notes and moving the necessary notes to the beginning of the story, which is how it will remain; I don't P&P. If anyone wants to translate my work for free distribution you have permission, just give me a link so I know it.
Next on the roster is finishing "The Gift" - think we can get to Samhain by Samhain (Halloween)? Yeah, me neither, but I can try! And I swear "The Mirk and Midnight Hour" isn't abandoned. I know where we're going, just not quite how we're getting there. Thank you once again!