The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
"So let me get this straight," Talia says, folding her arms over her chest and eyeing Rongar. "You want me to take the big guy aboard my ship, as my crew, because Sinbad kicked him off the Nomad?"
Rongar nods. That's exactly what he wants. They can't afford the moorage fees in Attalia much longer, and they can't leave Doubar behind. That means he has to talk Talia into taking the former first mate with her.
"Listen. Listen. Doubar and I have been friends for ages. We've saved each other's lives plenty of times, and maybe more important than that, he doesn't notice when I cheat at dice. But I was there, handsome, same as you were. I saw what he did to Sinbad's hothead. Yes, he was drunk. Yes, he's been out of his mind with worry. That doesn't excuse it, or the way he keeps running his mouth now. Why should I take pity on him?"
The night is warm, the docks still busy, torches and lanterns casting a rich golden glow along the hulls of the ships, the sailors and dock workers as they load and unload cargo. Doubar snores loudly near the bow of Talia's little ship; Rongar ignores him. He fell into a drunken stupor soon after Firouz patched him up, and no one wants to disturb him. Not for his peace, but for their own. They're done with his angry ranting.
*He's a desperate man. We have to keep him safe,* Rongar signs, lantern light gleaming on his nails as they move in the semi-darkness.
"Why? Sinbad was pretty clear. I mean, he didn't come out and order that we put Doubar ashore and leave him, but I think his fists spoke for him fairly plainly. I saw his eyes. He would have killed Doubar if you hadn't got between them."
Yes, Rongar knows, and that's what he had to prevent. He has every faith that Sinbad will return and, when he does, Rongar will obey the captain's orders regarding his brother no matter what they are. But he couldn't let him murder the man in fury. He wasn't thinking clearly, convinced his brother had just killed his pregnant love. He would have regretted his actions for the rest of his days had he killed his brother in furious retribution.
*They both needed to calm down.* They all needed to calm down. *Doubar is our brother. Our responsibility until Sinbad returns.* They can't let the desperate man harm anyone else, including himself.
"I don't know about that," Talia says, frowning at him.
"I'm back," Firouz calls, climbing the gangplank with a shallow reed basket in his hand. "I hope you like lamb kebab. That seems to be all anyone's serving in the market tonight. And I doubt the lamb is actually lamb. Old mutton, if we're lucky."
Rongar doesn't care what he eats. He remembers fine palace cuisine, his favorite dishes from before he lost both his throne and his tongue, but he's long stopped seeking the sensation of taste. He eats to sate hunger, not for pleasure.
"I'll eat anything," Talia says as Firouz sets his basket on the top of a barrel. "Though I may have lost my taste for drink after today. For a while, at least."
"Alcohol itself is neither good nor bad. Like a weapon, it all depends on the user." Firouz settles on a crate. "I don't think I'm actually hungry. Should we wake Doubar?"
"No," Talia barks, and Rongar shakes his head swiftly. Better that they make their plans uninterrupted. If Doubar starts talking again, he may never get the pirate to agree to take him.
*We need to keep him safe and out of trouble until Sinbad makes a rational decision,* he signs as Talia selects a wooden skewer filled with chunks of grilled lamb.
"Very astute thinking," Firouz approves. "Sinbad wasn't clear-headed at all. Not that I blame him after what Doubar did. But he needs to consider carefully before disowning his only blood."
Rongar nods wholeheartedly. If Sinbad truly does want Doubar out of his life forever, that's his right. But that decision can't be made in the heat of the moment. He needs time, and space to think. To weigh his options. And to be with Maeve, wherever she is.
"Fine, so he needs to think. But why do I have to get stuck with the grumpy ass Doubar's turned into in the meanwhile?" Talia grumbles, mouth full. "He's not my brother. And I've just about had it with that mouth of his. Who cares if Sinbad's getting a daughter? I think he'd be a fun dad for a little girl. Way better than mine was."
"Maybe a tad unconventional," Firouz allows. "But neither Sinbad nor Maeve have ever been much for convention anyway."
"Not that it matters if the kid dies." Talia drops her food to the makeshift table, apparently not hungry anymore. She scowls. "The hothead will live—she's too stubborn not to. But unborn babies are fragile things. Even hers."
Rongar knows. Everyone knows. But they won't know what's happened to Maeve or the child she carries until someone returns to tell them. *We can't help with that. But we can keep Doubar safe. And we can look for Dermott.*
"Yeah, that's the other bit I don't get," Talia says. "You want us to go gallivanting off to some island I've never even heard of, in search of a soothsayer who maybe can tell you how to find the hothead's lost birdie?"
Rongar nods. That's exactly what he wants.
"It's a noble gesture, Rongar," Firouz says, "but I don't know that anyone, magic or not, could find one lost hawk out of a whole world of them. He's probably gone feral, and even if he hasn't, we'd be better off retracing our course to the last place we saw him and searching from there."
"You're getting too far ahead of yourself, Mr. Genius," Talia says. "Back up a pace. I want to know why we have to sail so far out of our way to find this particular soothsayer. There have to be at least a dozen in Attalia. Anyone who says he can see the future is a quack, I don't care how you slice it. One man's cryptic babble is as good as any other's. Why do we have to sail so far for this one?"
Rongar rubs his fingers together in the universal symbol for money.
"What makes you think your special soothsayer will be any cheaper, or any better?"
*I know her.*
Talia picks at her food, but she's restless and does not like this answer. "Is this how Sinbad begins his quests, too? We've known each other for a long time, but I've never sailed under him until now. Does he just...decide to embark on gallant pursuits without any rhyme or reason? No pricey cargo, no promise of a payday at the end?"
"Yes," Firouz says, and Rongar nods. That's exactly how Sinbad runs his ship. He's not doing anything the Nomad's captain wouldn't do. Heroic quests without guarantee of success or reward are Sinbad's specialty.
Talia groans. "I may be getting too old for this. I mean, I like adventuring as much as the next pirate, don't get me wrong. But only if it pays. Animals don't pay. Why are we doing all this for a bird?"
*He's not a bird.*
"Come again?"
*He's not a bird.*
Talia eyes him. "Listen, I've always been able to understand you pretty well, but I may need a translator for this one. No offense. I swear you're trying to tell me the hothead's little pet is not a bird."
*He's not.*
Talia stares. Firouz stares.
"Rongar, did you hit your head while I was fetching food? Trying to find Dermott is a very noble goal, and one that would cheer Maeve up immensely—assuming she survives, of course. But he's a hawk. An extremely well-trained one, but just a bird."
Rongar shakes his head firmly. *He's not a bird. He's been cursed by Rumina.* He's known this for quite some time.
Firouz and Talia glance blankly at each other.
Honestly, Rongar thinks, does no one on this ship have eyes or ears? Raptors do not have facial expressions. They do not respond readily to voice commands, do not bond closely with their handlers. Dermott does all this. He may wear the body of a hawk, but he's not a bird inside. Rongar doesn't know the story of how he came to be in this shape. He doesn't know what he is to Maeve, or was before he was cursed. But he knows from hints dropped over the last two years that Rumina is caught up in it somehow, and he's willing to bet every last coin he has that Dermott is the reason Maeve is here in the south in the first place, so far from her homeland and the people who obviously care for her.
But explaining all this to Talia and Firouz through his hands is too difficult so, as he so often does, he keeps his knowledge about Dermott to himself. Maybe he'll write it down for them later. Right now, they don't need the details. They only need to agree to his plan.
"Are you trying to tell me her bird's a man?" Talia chews slowly on the tough skewer of meat Rongar can tell at a glance is not tender young lamb. "That's...an interesting development. I wonder if Sinbad knows? He won't like it, when he finds out."
Rongar knows exactly what the pirate is hinting, and he isn't concerned. Maeve loves her hawk dearly, but not the way she loves Sinbad. Whatever Dermott is to her, he's not her lover. Kin, perhaps, or a dear friend. Someone she feels indebted to, or feels the need to protect. Someone she's spent a lot of time and effort trying to free. The specifics don't matter. Dermott's return is no threat to Sinbad's place at Maeve's side, and they need to do what they can to facilitate it.
From the bow of the ship, Doubar's snores falter. Everyone freezes until they lengthen again, the former first mate of the Nomad falling into deeper sleep.
"Let me just be clear about this," Talia says, lifting a hand to rub the bridge of her nose. "You want to sail for an island called Bollnah, which Firouz and I have never heard of?"
He nods.
"To gain audience with a soothsayer, a profession I think is even slimier than mine?"
He nods. His sister's prophecies are real, but Talia can think what she wants.
"To hopefully get a clue to the whereabouts of the hothead's pet?"
He nods.
"A pet you say isn't actually a pet, but a cursed human?"
He nods.
"And then you want to sail after this pet, using whatever cryptic clue the soothsayer may or may not give us?"
He nods.
"Hopefully find him and return him to the Nomad, despite the fact that he may have gone feral?"
He nods.
"All while babysitting an angry, desperate giant who can't be trusted on his own?"
He nods.
"With no payday at the end, just the hope that at some point Sinbad will magically show up without Scratch's brand on his chest?"
He nods.
Talia groans. "I'm definitely getting too old for this. That doesn't sound like adventure. It sounds an awful lot like work."
"Put it this way instead, if it makes you feel better," Firouz suggests. "You're worried about Sinbad. What else are you going to do to pass the time between now and All Souls Night? Isn't being useful better than sitting around worrying?"
*Or continuing to pay moorage fees here?* Rongar signs.
Talia curses, and from the way she glares at him, Rongar knows this last argument is the one that sways her. "Okay, fine. You got me, boys. But there better be a fucking medal in it for me if I have to put up with Doubar. You know, something I can melt down and use as currency. And you're fronting supplies for both ships. I refuse to pay out of pocket for the trouble of babysitting. I'd rather have those three little shrimps we watched as crew. Including the baby."
Rongar chuckles. Talia's a good person. Mostly. Even if she doesn't know it.
Maeve has never been good at staying still.
As a small child at Brí Leith, this is what she was beaten most for. Her attention never faltered, but her ability to remain quiet and motionless while listening to lectures or reading her books was sorely lacking. Even Dim-Dim commented wryly on her energy, her restlessness, though he never scolded or punished her for it. She doesn't know why her body insists on movement, only that she's always been this way. She's always felt an inner agitation that only earth passing beneath her feet or wind in a white sail can assuage.
But not now.
When all her energy—her flesh, her magic—passed to her daughter, did this yearning to roam go with it? She hopes not. Fin needs to stay where she is for now. She can wander when she's older. Once her legs have learned to keep her upright. Once she masters the arts of horse and sail. She can fly where she pleases then, but not yet. Right now, she needs to stay. To rest, and to heal.
To this end, Maeve puts what energy she has into being a good example for her daughter. Fin needs to remain safe inside her, and Maeve needs to remain safe inside this house, this sanctuary, no matter how unnatural it feels to hide from an enemy instead of facing him. For her daughter, she will do this. For Sinbad. For the family she so badly needs to remain unbroken.
Keely told her to sleep. To rest and let go. She does not obey orders well, but this is the sister she thought was lost to her, now returned thanks to Cairpra's timely intervention. And Maeve doesn't know that she has the strength to disobey, anyway. So, as Sinbad encourages and her sister insists, she lets go. Of everything—the heavy yoke of fear she's lived under, the hyper-vigilance, the ever-present anxiety ratcheting higher and higher as she waits for the next blow, the next visit from Scratch or Rumina. They can't touch her here. Can't harm her little Fin. Sinbad is with her, his presence so vital, so beautiful and warm. Keely and Wren and Niall appear from time to time, too, and their continued love, their return after she thought they were lost to her, is a boon nearly as warm as Sinbad's skin. With all of these gifts clustered so thickly around her, she's finally able to do as her sister orders. She lets go of the fear, that constant reviled companion which took up residence in her body without permission. She lets go of the guilt as much as she possibly can. Sinbad never leaves her side and that means he must not blame her for this mess no matter how much she blames herself. He's annoyingly good at being right most of the time, so if he doesn't blame her, maybe that means she shouldn't blame herself.
And holy fuck, letting go feels good.
She revels in sleep as she never has before, the kind of deep, velvety, dreamless sleep that tastes sweeter than honey, feels better than the teas. When she wakes her limbs feel heavy and loose, half-numb with sleep, and she relishes the reality that she can choose to fall back under that somnolent spell if she wants to. There's nothing she needs more than sleep, no tasks more vital. No one chides her for laziness—they encourage it.
Part of her understands this feeling is a very physical reaction to the dangerous state of her body. She has nothing left, no magic, no energy, drawing on the power of Sinbad's mysterious bracelet to keep herself alive. She's been a strong, uncompromising fighter all her life, but after Doubar's attack and her disastrous attempt at retreat her body collapsed, unable to fight any longer. It's okay. She gives her poor body permission, as Keely gave it to her: a gift. A boon. Consent to let go of everything, everything except her tie to this world, these people. Her sweet Fin. Sinbad. Keely. Their love shelters and buoys her. She's never liked feeling beholden to people but right now she has no choice and there's nowhere else in the world she'd rather convalesce, if convalesce she must. The Isle of Dawn disappeared, and the Nomad is no longer safe, not with Doubar's animosity and the constant threat of Scratch and Rumina. But none of those dangers can touch her here. She knows she's not well, knows her baby isn't well. But she has utter faith in Keely's knowledge and Sinbad's love, and she places her fate, her daughter's fate, in their hands for now since she can do nothing more for her but continue to breathe. She gives in, entrusting herself fully to their care, and that surrender is itself a sort of freedom. Not one she would ever have chosen on her own, but even still she's able to recognize this gift for what it is.
Every time she wakes, Sinbad is with her. She remembers cold, aching cold that tried to rip her apart from the inside out, jagged rivers of ice where her blood used to flow. It hovers near even now, threatening to close in again, but the melting heat of Sinbad's presence staves it off as the sweetness of late summer sun staves off the encroaching winter. She's been addicted to the fiery heat of his hard body for longer than she cares to admit, but now it's her lifeline and she can't get enough. Vaguely she understands this is at least partially a reaction to his bracelet, the magic that sustains her, keeps her alive. But she's convinced that part of it is him. Not the magic. Maybe not even the bond they share, but the essential core of him, the foundation of who he is. Sinbad may call her his firebrand but he is heat personified, the warmth of his heart, his open, welcoming spirit. Right now that spirit will not allow her to give up. To let go, yes. Not give up. He will let her do anything else in the world, but not that.
He wakes her gently from time to time, easing her softly from the velvet darkness of sleep to encourage her to eat. She has to be reminded—her body is too sick, its normal signals of hunger no longer functioning. She recognizes by sight the food put in front of her but it's tasteless to her tongue, odorless to her nose. She eats anyway, no matter how unappetizing, understanding even through the fog of exhaustion that Fin needs this as much as she needs rest.
And slowly, slowly, things begin to get better.
Maeve doesn't realize it until she wakes one night without urging to find Sinbad in the chair next to her bed, attempting to eat his dinner with Lily on his lap. Maeve blinks slowly, watching with rapt fondness as he feeds Keely's begging daughter bits of bread and cheese. Big and tough as he is, he's a pushover when Lily wiggles her tiny palm in supplication and her full lower lip juts out. He caves to Lily's wiles as thoroughly as Maeve did to him the first time he kissed her. And he's just as clueless now as she was then.
She cannot describe even to herself how completely she loves this man. The battle between them was long and she fought valiantly, but she suspects the outcome was foregone the moment they met. She's a sucker for his pretty face, no matter how much her reaction originally galled her. He won over her suspicious nature bit by bit, over time, with nothing but honesty. He never tried to buy her attention as other men do, never showered her with flattery or gifts, pretty things but meaningless in the end. He was simply himself, and allowed her to be herself without judgment or correction, which turned out to be the gift she wanted most in the world. He could be the plainest, homeliest man and she would still love him, because his pretty eyes and perfect bones are not what won her over. It was the person shining plainly behind them.
A person currently letting a tiny toddler girl eat his dinner for him, and perfectly happy doing so. This is not his child—in fact, she's the child of a man he would very much like to hurt if given the chance. But he takes no notice of this, letting her cajole and demand and smile him out of his food instead of pushing her away and locking the door. He guides his spoon to her mouth, holding just the end, letting her think she's doing it herself, giving her the choicest morsels from his bowl.
And, to her surprise, Maeve realizes she can smell the hot stew, the savor of slow-cooked beef, the bite of bitter greens and the mellow starch of root vegetables. She hasn't smelled anything since leaving the Nomad unless Sinbad's skin counts, and she's not sure it does. She'd know him anywhere, even if she lost all her senses.
She stretches slowly, sweetly, her body sleep-numb and slightly tingly. It's delicious. Her muscles ache, her whole body sore beyond belief, but it's the good hurt that comes after winning a battle or weathering a storm, almost as sweet in its own way as the heat that envelops her. Even her toes are warm, something she's not used to here in the north, but Sinbad is beside her and she can feel the heavy pile of blankets layered on top of her. She's cocooned in warmth, like a turtle's egg buried for safekeeping in hot sand, and she loves it.
"You're awake." Sinbad's smile when he sees her open eyes is broad and beautiful, triggering the sweet crease in his cheek that isn't quite a dimple. "I'm sorry. Did we disturb you?"
She shakes her head slowly. He could never disturb her. Waking to him like this is a gift. She's been denied the comfort of her céile for far too long, and she suspects that denial is part of what broke her. They don't function well apart anymore, and the constant strain of pushing him away was doing terrible things to her. But even now she doesn't know what else she could have done.
"Are you hungry?"
"Um," Lily says happily, reaching for the spoon in his hand.
"Not you. You can't possibly still be hungry. You have nowhere left to put another mouthful."
Lily just laughs. She's spilled gummy crumbs of bread down her saffron-colored shift but Sinbad doesn't seem to care as he holds her on his knee and waits for Maeve's answer.
Maeve considers. She hasn't been hungry since leaving the Nomad, eating because she knows she must, not because she wants to. Today, however, she smells hot stew and fresh bread and she's fairly sure her stomach wants it. At least, she thinks that's what it's telling her. Her baby communicates much more clearly, moving abruptly in her belly as her mother considers a meal. She wants it, even if Maeve doesn't.
"I think so," she says, shifting slightly on the mattress. She feels like her body is maybe hers again, like she remembers living inside this skin, and it's immensely satisfying despite the pain. The soft brushed linen of the sheet is warm with her body heat, and the sensation of it rippling against her foot when she moves is delicious.
Sinbad beams at her answer. "I'll bring you a tray. What about it, kid? Should we adventure downstairs?"
Lily looks ready to go with him anywhere, smitten with her new uncle, but Maeve holds her arms out. She's a little surprised and very pleased that they obey, though they shake as she lifts them. "Leave her." She hasn't seen Lily in ages, and she wants a moment with her niece.
Sinbad looks doubtful. "Are you sure? I don't think you should lift her."
Maeve doesn't think she could, anyway. "I won't. Just bring her here."
He does, shifting Lily from his lap to the bed. She protests the disruption and reaches for him, but he soothes her with a crumb of cheese. "She wandered in on her own. I expected maybe two or three more to follow, but she was alone."
"She's between Duncan and Conall in age, and she's only just starting to realize they're potentially interesting. Or she was last time I saw her. Whenever that was. I don't even know anymore." Maeve represses a sigh. She's here now. That's what she has to remember. Her family was lost to her, yes, but not anymore.
Lily puts her finger in her mouth and scoots closer on the mattress. She remembers her, something Maeve does not take for granted with the babies when she waits too long between visits. But Lily isn't really a baby anymore, her bright brown eyes regarding her aunt with warmth and speculation—wondering whether this person also might have something for her.
"I don't have any food," Maeve says, "but you can come sit with me." She holds out her arm.
This seems to be acceptable. Lily crawls into the curve of her welcoming arm and Maeve lets it fall against the child's sturdy body, allowing her muscles a rest. Lily has always been Nessa in miniature but she resembles her missing aunt even more now, down even to the tiny, imperious lift of her little chin. Her fluffy black curls halo her little brown face, those impossibly long lashes framing huge dark eyes.
"Will you two be all right if I run downstairs?" Sinbad watches them cautiously, but most of his worry seems to have fled when Lily settled in the crook of Maeve's arm.
"We're fine," Maeve assures him. She knows his worries are for his own daughter, so fragile compared to her sìthiche cousin. But Lily is settled, and she minds better than Mia did at her age. "But don't go too far." She needs him, whether she wants to admit it or not.
"I know. I'm learning the limits of the spell," he says, touching his glowing bracelet lightly with his fingers. "It seems to be more about time than distance, at least so far. I can go out to the meadow or the beach, but I can't eat a meal in the kitchen."
Maeve draws breath to apologize, then lets it go again. Keely told her to stop, and Keely was right. Maeve doesn't have energy to waste feeling guilty for things she can't control.
"I'm not complaining," Sinbad says swiftly. He offers her a crooked half-smile that melts her far more than it should. "I'm grateful to know these things. And Keely says it will probably get better as you recover."
"It better." Maeve lets Lily take her hand in two tiny ones. She wants to pick her up and squeeze her hard, cover her with playful kisses, but she can't. She can't do anything but hold her, which Lily will tire of soon, spinning from her side in search of more interesting diversions. It's fine. That's the nature of childhood. Maeve plans to enjoy it while it lasts, especially her Fin's. She has a feeling her girl's going to be an eager one, growing up swiftly, leaving these tender moments before Maeve would like her to. But she won't hold her back. She'd rather watch her run.
"Why?" Sinbad's smile turns wistful. "I could do without the threat of doom hanging over our heads, but having you so close, knowing where you are at all times, is...nice. A relief."
Maeve holds Lily loosely and tries to incite indignation to flare in her belly, but she honestly has neither the energy nor the inclination. He's a leader. A protector. Overbearing and overprotective, yes, but she knew that going in. She knows him, and knows how badly it affects him when she pushes him away.
Well, no more. Not here. They're safe, and she has no intention of pushing him away again. But she has no intention of staying magically chained to him, either. "I want you with me," she says, "but I don't want either of us shackled for life."
His mouth quirks. "That's what your sister said. She said we'd probably kill each other if we were. I have my doubts."
"I don't. I'd kill you first, no question." She loves him, but she knows herself too well to succumb to a fantasy future where all they do is loll in bed and make kissy-faces. No part of it is realistic, and she's not prone to fits of fantasy. This pause is desperately needed, but it's not permanent. Nor do either of them really want it to be, no matter how much relief he may find in her sitting still for a moment. They need their freedom, their autonomy. No bond, no matter how meaningful, can change that. "But I'd still love you."
"Even as you killed me for breathing too loud or not bathing often enough?"
"Even then," she agrees.
"Now that's romance." He bends and kisses her forehead, his lips gentle on her skin. "My sweet girl. I'll bring you food."
Her body knows instantly the moment he leaves the room, slipping from her presence like the heat of the sun after dusk. It feels so strange, the warmth leaking out of her body as the door closes behind him. She knows it's the bracelet's magic she feels, the lifeline that sustains her while she's unable to do it herself. But it's Sinbad, too, his lifeforce tied firmly to the bracelet and to her. She's very glad he's the one to sustain her like this; she doesn't know that she could stand anyone else, even Dermott or Keely, so close for so long.
Lily pats her shoulder lightly at the same time Fin moves in her belly, and Maeve catches her breath at the strange sensation. "Do you know your cousin's right here?" she asks her daughter. "You have a lot of them, you know, and will have more. Keely's son is on his way, and I don't believe Niall and Wren are done yet, either." Con's pushing a year old, which means Wren will likely conceive again in the next few moons. If Con lets her wean him, that is.
Fin is still for the moment, but Lily giggles as she tugs at the loose laces of Maeve's robe. She sticks the end of one in her mouth and chews.
"You're not going to like getting a little brother, at least at first," Maeve tells her. Lily will hate it every bit as much as Mia hated getting a sister. She's used to being the spoiled baby princess of the house, and she will not like that changing. Keely refuses to pamper and baby her girls, but Antoine always did, and having none of their own yet Niall and Wren do as well. And then there was Nessa, who would go to battle with her brother for a turn indulging her niece.
Now she and Lily's father are gone.
The heavy yoke of guilt hovers close despite Keely's warning as Maeve looks in Lily's big brown eyes. She told Nessa Dermott was missing. She prompted Nessa's disappearance, no matter how inadvertently. Now Nessa is possibly dead. She can't trust that Scratch told the truth about that...but she can't trust that he didn't, either. His is not an honest character, but he'll stoop to telling the truth if he has to.
The safety and whereabouts of Maeve's missing family plague her, and she wishes talking to Cairpra were an easier task. She's done the conjuring herself, reaching Dim-Dim at one point despite the distance which separates them. This is the spell Keely and Niall will have to use to reach Cairpra since they no longer have sìthiche magic at their disposal, and while it's not a particularly difficult one, it is draining. Keely wasn't wrong about that. And they'll have to work together since neither is a properly trained sorcerer and Maeve has no magic to spare. It will be complicated but worth it, Maeve hopes. She needs to know whether anything Scratch said to her was true at all. Is Dermott truly dead? Nessa? Will everything that happens from now on be her fault, as he vowed?
Not that she had a choice. He wanted her to surrender to death, but that's not an option while Fin needs her alive. She's willing to bargain with her own life, but not her daughter's.
Sinbad returns before her thoughts can spiral too dangerously into dark territory. His presence is like the sun, sweeping warmth back into her quickly-chilling body. This is going to get annoying fast, but for now she's too tired to be irritated. She's just grateful for the warmth, the heat of this flame they share between them. She relaxes into her blankets, unsurprised to see Keely appear behind Sinbad. She's beginning to look unwieldy with that big belly on her little frame. Even under her loose dress her baby is very clearly bigger than Fin.
"There you are, leannán. Since you're awake, let's check you again. Then I won't have to bother you later." She takes in her daughter's presence at Maeve's side without surprise. "I see at least one vulture has been seeking handouts."
"She's very good at it." Maeve submits to her sister's ministrations. She hates this part, but it's necessary. She lets Keely draw back the blankets and raise the heavy skirt of her robe without protest. Keely draws a clean cloth between her legs, seeking any trace of blood.
"No spotting," she says after a tense moment, and to Maeve's relief she replaces her blankets. Even with Sinbad beside her, she still gets cold far too swiftly. At least this is an honest physical reaction to the cooler temperatures of her homeland, the fact that she has no meat on her bones to ward off the night chill.
"I think I'd feel if Fin were in trouble," Maeve says. She feels so closely tied to this little life growing within her, it seems incomprehensible that an emergency could happen without her knowledge. But Keely is the expert, so she lets her do as she wishes.
"Maybe, but do you really want to take that chance if you don't have to?" Keely kisses her gently. "How do you feel now?"
Maeve slowly begins the laborious process of turning clumsily on her side. "Fairly awful, I think. But maybe not? How should I feel?"
"I have no idea. What you should be is dead, but you're too stubborn for that. Your kid seems to be, too."
A true smile curls Maeve's mouth. Pride fills her and she rubs her belly lightly. "That's my girl."
"Yeah, you say that now. Just wait until that pigheaded temperament is set on something you don't want her to do."
Maeve doesn't care. Her girl can be as willful as she wants. She can be anything, so long as she survives. She and Sinbad will spend the next decade and a half teaching Finleigh how to get out of all the trouble she'll inevitably land in, and they will both deserve every single headache, every single sleepless night. They've given their families their fare share, after all. And it will be worth it, if they all outlive this trial.
"Do I ever get to sit up again?" she asks, surveying the full tray Sinbad places before her. "How much do you think I can possibly hold? My belly isn't a camel's hump—there's a kid in it."
Keely laughs as Sinbad settles back in the chair at Maeve's bedside. "Broth first. The marrow from the bones is good for you and the baby."
"Are you ever going to call her by her name?"
"No. And don't you dare say I didn't warn you. Don't ask me again. Are you listening? Broth first. Then stew and bread and cheese. And the fruit's a gift from Nox's kin across the sea. They call it pineapple."
Maeve inspects the bright yellow cubes of fruit swimming in a shallow pool of juice.
"It's delicious," Sinbad assures her.
"You don't need fruit, strictly speaking," Keely says, batting her daughter's reaching hand away from the bowl without even glancing at it. "But I know you like it, and I want you to eat. You would be ravenous by now if this were a normal pregnancy. You should have been ravenous ages ago. What you need most is dark meat—red meat and organ meat—and dark greens. The rest is just padding."
Maeve obediently lifts the mug of broth. She hasn't tasted anything since leaving the Nomad but she can smell the richness of the liquid, and when it hits her tongue the salty savor is shocking in its clarity. She sips, watching in amusement as Lily manages to swipe a piece of fruit this time, putting the sticky yellow cube to her mouth and sucking the juice happily. "Is that all pregnant women, or just me?"
"All of us to an extent, but you particularly. You'd be trying to eat clay if you could get up; I can see the signs. Why it happens I can't tell you, but I know the remedy well enough. You need bulking up, but more than that you need the right food, fresh meat and eggs and dark greens, and as much liquid as you can hold."
"Hard to hold much with a kid sleeping on my bladder," Maeve mutters, but her heart's not in the complaint. She'd rather have Fin there than the alternative.
"We can talk about you sitting up if things continue to go smoothly for a few more days." Keely lifts her daughter from the bed and sets her gently on her feet. "Come on, honeybee. You had your food earlier. Let your aunt eat hers in peace. Don't feel pressure to feed the vultures, Sinbad. They're not starving, and they know you're an easy target."
Still clutching her sticky, pilfered prize, Lily follows her mother from the room.
"I'm not an easy target," Sinbad grumbles, but he absolutely is. The boys knew it their first night on the Nomad, and Lily has him pegged. Maeve saw how he caved the instant she tugged on his sleeve, how he let her sit on his lap like a wee sultana on a silk cushion. The corner of her mouth quirks wryly. He's going to spoil his own daughter horribly, she can see—a far better outcome than ignoring her, which is what she feared before. But Maeve will have a tough time balancing out his pampering and she's fairly sure Firouz and Rongar won't be any use to her in this. Big softies, the lot of them.
Including Doubar? her mind inquires without her permission.
No. This is not a question she chooses to ask herself, not a topic she wishes to prod. The wound is still too raw, and she's still too tired, both body and soul. She can't process what Doubar did while still frantically trying to deal with the consequences. Her hand shakes as she holds her mug, but she firmly pushes these thoughts away, placing them in a locked chest in her mind until she's ready to confront them. This isn't Scratch whispering at her, but her own mind trying to make sense out of chaos. She will, she assures herself. She will. But not yet. It still hurts too much. She's not ready.
And she doesn't need to be. She doesn't need to do anything but care for Fin, nurse her back to health by nursing herself. She finishes her broth swiftly and puts this pain away to study later.
Warmth flows through her, from both the hot liquid and Sinbad's steady presence at her side. She feels like the flame of a candle held cupped behind a protective hand, safe from the danger of the wind. It feels ridiculously good, warmer and sweeter than any covering, though she still unaccountably wants her red blanket. She also wants her sword, likewise abandoned aboard ship. She owns little else, unless Dim-Dim's books count, but these two things are hers and she wants them.
She licks cautiously at the new fruit and finds that Sinbad was correct: it's delicious. Very acidic, but the acid cuts the intense sweetness of the juice, preventing it from being too cloying.
"Where does Nox hail from?" Sinbad returns to his own dinner, and doesn't complain that it's gone cold. "When I saw the crate of those fruits I thought they came from another world. They're covered in scales like the bark of a date palm tree, and they have wild-looking saw-toothed spikes growing out the tops."
"She is from another world, or your scholars would probably say so. A world your mapmakers don't yet know exists, far, far to the west." Maeve licks her fingers and turns to her bowl of stew. Now that her senses are slowly beginning to work again, she's fairly sure she does feel hungry. Fin moves in her belly, eager for food. Maeve promises she'll feed her. She'll feed her as much as she can, as much as her body will let her. "There's a globe upstairs in the library. Nox's home is on it, though I wouldn't trust the accuracy of the coastlines or anything,"she says around a mouthful. "It's sìthiche-made, and they have no taste for the sea which means they'll never be faithful cartographers. But they know what's out there."
"Because they can travel by magic without all the hassle we have?"
"Aye. Wings help, too, though I've never heard of anyone crossing a sea by air. Not outside of legends."
"Are there humans in this other world, too?"
"I don't know. I assume so. We're everywhere." She eats slowly, her belly not wholly accustomed to the feeling of solid food. She'd rather not make herself sick if she can help it. "Last time Nox's people gave us a gift, they sent something called cacao. A bitter pod they grind and mix with hot water to drink. It must be very good for you, because it tasted awful." She likes this pineapple much better.
Sinbad chuckles as he eats the dregs of his cold stew without complaint. "There's no accounting for local tastes. On the voyage that took me to Nippon I stopped on an island to the south. Their local delicacy was called balut. It was—" He stops abruptly, looks at his bowl, and swallows hard. "You know what? Never mind. Now's not the time."
Maeve chuckles. "Probably a good call, sailor." She nibbles on her bread but her stomach, unused to eating a full meal after so long without, doesn't want more than the mug of broth and half a bowl of stew. She turns slowly to her back, yawning as Sinbad removes her tray. Her body is tired, but she doesn't want to fall asleep again just yet. She's warm and safe, her Fin is happy, and there's nothing else in the world she needs. She feeds her baby a morsel of magic, all she can manage to scrape together. Keely has not specifically forbidden this, and Maeve has no intention of asking permission. Fin kicks softly, moving with delight.
"She's kicking. Do you want to feel her?"
Sinbad is instantly at her side, his hands reaching up under her robe to press lightly against her belly. "That's amazing. Every single time."
"I think I'd probably be tired of it by now if she kept me up at night, but I've been sleeping too hard to notice."
Sinbad frowns. "You've been unconscious mostly. I'm not sure that's the same as sleep. And I'm happy you're waking up more often. You didn't open your eyes for three days, and even though I could see you breathing I still felt like I was holding my breath the whole time."
"Come here." She draws him down on the big bed with her and he comes willingly, settling beside her. She curls against the heat of his body, seeking the calm of his skin. "I refuse to die that easily, that shamefully. Not if I can help it."
"I know you'd never choose to. It's when you can't help it that worries me."
"Scratch hasn't won yet. Try to remember that."
"I do. All the time." He runs his hand over her blankets. "And I try to remember Dim-Dim's faith that everything happens for a reason."
"What happened to you?" Her delicate brows draw together as she takes in his hand, really seeing it for the first time since fleeing the Nomad. She catches it with hers and holds it gently. The back is black and blue, mottled with healing bruises, and looks incredibly painful.
"Nothing. It doesn't matter." He shakes off her concern. "Keely fixed it mostly anyway."
"That's fixed? How bad was it before?" She runs her fingers over the back of his hand, noting the scabs of his healing knuckles, the swelling that means something inside was damaged at one point even if Keely did fix it. "What did you hit?"
"The wall," he admits. His visage darkens. "And Doubar's face. Multiple times." He shakes off her grip and slips his arm around her instead, hiding his hand in a fold of blanket. "I thought you were dead. Both of you. And it was…." He shakes his head sharply and does not continue.
"I thought I was, too." She takes hold of the shoulder of his shirt and tugs gently. He yields instantly, drawing closer to kiss her mouth, his lips sweet as they glide along hers. Beautiful man. She can hear the pain in his voice, and how he tries to conceal it. But he doesn't have to be strong for her. She knows him too well for that. She nips very gently at his lower lip, the softness of this small part of him. He's so sweet here, and his mouth moves perfectly with hers, kissing her softly, communicating both his pain and the removal of it without words. He doesn't have to tell her how he felt after she disappeared from the Nomad. She knows. She remembers how she felt when she awoke in the darkness, the rending ache of loss. She knows how it felt to believe she would never see him again, never meet her daughter. And it was far worse for him, she knows, because Doubar was right there. Sinbad watched it happen.
She holds him close now, breathing in the smell of his clean skin, burying her nose in his collarbone. She'll never take moments like this for granted, because she knows how it felt to lose them. She digs her fingers into the meat of his shoulder, holding him as tightly as her wasted muscles allow. "It's okay, Sinbad. I still don't know exactly what happened, but we made it through. We're still here."
His nose brushes hers, his breath warm on her lips. She can feel his distress in the touch of his skin, the way his body presses hers with a need that has nothing to do with sex. "Barely," he says, voice dark. "I'm so sorry. Everyone warned me. You. Rongar. Hell, maybe even Talia. But I swear I never saw it coming."
"Neither did I." She strokes his cheeks, the rasp of stubble telling her he hasn't left her side even long enough to shave. "You offered to put him ashore ages ago. I'm the one who told you not to." Because she thought she could handle him. Because she never believed that Doubar, her lovable sweet Doubar, would ever turn on her. He's the flipside of Dermott, the jolly big brother her own was never permitted to be, too weighed down by responsibility. She never dreamed their relationship would come to this, a moment of life or death struggle, a moment in which she panicked and her magic reacted for her, trying to protect her the only way it knew how.
"I'm the captain. I could have overridden you, but I didn't." His fingertip traces the sharp line of her jaw, hovers near her lip. "I'll spend the rest of my life making that mistake up to you."
"Why?" She takes his hand, twining her fingers with his. His palm is so warm. "It wasn't your fault. Maybe it wasn't even Doubar's." She brings their hands to her mouth, kissing his poor torn knuckles. He smells good, like male skin and the herbal soap Niall makes. It's immensely soothing, but not quite right. Her heart twists as she realizes why—he no longer smells like the sea. This is such an integral part of who he is, and a trace of unease fills her at its absence.
"Of course it was his fault." Sinbad scowls and pulls his hand away. "Did you hit your head when I went downstairs? I was there. I saw what he did, and heard some of what he said to you. I would have stopped him in another moment, but I was too slow. He meant it. I don't know that he wanted to kill you, but he wanted to do serious damage. Don't sit there and try to tell me it wasn't his fault."
No, Doubar wasn't trying to kill her. He acted on impulse, with no clear thought other than to soothe his own pain by dealing some out to her. She knows that. But she also suspects, no matter how much she hates admitting it, that in her depleted state he might have killed her anyway. He's far bigger than she is, and right now far stronger. And even if she survived, Fin would not have. Not without Keely's intervention. So maybe her terrified flight was for the best after all, no matter how unintentional, because she can't lose Sinbad and Fin now. She just can't.
"Doubar was full of whiskey," she says, which anyone in the galley would have smelled. "And Scratch has been whispering to him. Sinbad, look at me. I didn't hit my head. I'm serious. He's been whispering to Doubar the whole time, nibbling away at him. To me, too. I should have realized before, but I didn't." She cups his cheek in her hand, forcing his eyes to remain locked with hers. He can doubt everything else about her ordeal if he wants to—she certainly does. But not this. "Doubar did what he did and I'm not denying it or making excuses, but he did it under the demon's influence."
"You don't know that." Sinbad exhales a deep, troubled breath. "Sweetling, you didn't see what you looked like when Wren brought me to you, didn't hear how you sounded when you woke up in spite of Keely's magic. I don't know what really happened, but you can't trust it like that."
"I can," she insists. "I don't know if I really spoke to Scratch or he sent a dream somehow, but he told me what he did and I believe him. He warned us. Told us exactly what he was going to do. It's our fault we didn't listen." This is not something she wants to admit—her own weakness, her inability to recognize the devil's whispers for what they were. She didn't pay enough attention. None of them paid enough attention. Keely can harp at her about misplaced guilt all she likes, but this absolutely is her fault and she refuses to deny it. The desperate panic that seized her the night she tried to run from Sinbad now makes perfect sense. Scratch fueled it. He goaded her into it, and she was too scared and too confused to realize her fear was not entirely her own. He spoke in her voice and she did not question his words.
She should have. She knew better. She thought she was on guard against him, but she never considered having to guard against her own inner voice.
"Shh. Please don't get worked up. It's bad for the baby, and you need to save your energy." He settles his mouth against her temple, kissing her skin with tender reverence. "I won't argue with you about it. Not until we can talk to Cairpra. If she says it truly happened…." He looks beyond troubled.
"It makes too much sense to be untrue," Maeve says. "He had no reason to lie. He was proud of what he did. He said he spoke to you, too. In your head. Ring any bells?"
Sinbad breathes softly near her ear as he thinks. She lets him. The revelation that Scratch has been in her head so long without her knowledge is not a welcome one, and Sinbad won't find it any easier to accept.
"He knew. I tried my best to hide her, but he knew about Fin from the start. I don't know if his plan was always to goad Doubar into ruining everything, but I'm sure he thought it was more fun than killing me himself." She hugs her belly gently as Fin moves slowly inside her, sleepy after their meal. Maeve does not like contemplating how close she came to losing her daughter, this little life depending wholly on her. It's too frightening. She holds her belly and tries to focus on her present reality, not the might-have-been that almost came to pass. Fin is alive. They're healing together. That's what she has to remember.
"He does like to play games," Sinbad says, a low growl near her ear. "And that's exactly the sort of twisted game that would delight him."
"But he lost," Maeve says, cupping the back of his neck with her palm, stroking his skin with her thumb. "He tried and he failed. I got away, even though I didn't mean to. I believed Cairpra helped me when I was lost in the darkness. With her aid I made it here, and you and Keely did the rest."
"It was a group effort. Even Bran helped. I think all the boys would have tried, given the chance, but Niall said they can't concentrate well enough yet. They adore you. They'd do anything for you."
That's family. Maeve presses her cheek to his shirt, finding her favorite spot on his shoulder. She lost her faith in the concept of family entirely after Antoine disowned her, but how can she continue to disbelieve after her rescue? Powerful bonds unite her with her people: Cairpra, Dim-Dim, her northern kin, Sinbad and his crew. Even in her most cynical moments she can't deny that.
"Please believe me," she says into his skin. "I'm not absolving Doubar. But he was goaded."
Sinbad inhales swiftly, his chest rising under her cheek. "I believe you," he says, though she suspects he's not as sure as he wants to be. "But it makes no difference. He hurt you. Hurt Fin. Put us all through hell."
"I know." She doesn't have to be reminded. "I'm not saying it changes anything. But I need you to know."
His mouth brushes her forehead. "I know you'll never forget. Neither will I. But we need to try to put it behind us if we're going to move on. Doubar is not part of our lives anymore."
She eases back so she can see his eyes, sudden suspicion welling in her. He's said these words before—she distinctly remembers that. And she knows the man she loves, knows his strengths as well as his faults. She knows how much he adores her, adores the child she carries. He does not usually lash out in retaliative spite, but if he believed Doubar killed her and Fin….
"Did you kill him?" she asks softly.
"No." He touches her lip with one gentle fingertip, his eyes hooded in shadow. She kisses the pad of his finger. "But I would have. Rongar wouldn't let me." He clears his throat roughly and draws further back into the shadows. Her heart breaks for him. That's his brother. The man who helped raise him. His only blood kin until Fin is born. But he's also the man who almost destroyed his world.
No, she realizes with a very unwelcome jolt. He did destroy their world. He may not have managed to kill her or her baby—yet—but this betrayal shattered Sinbad's very foundation. What happens now? Maeve doesn't know, but she knows they can never go back to what they were. Doubar killed any hope of that the moment he put his hands on her. She doesn't know how she feels yet, but Sinbad will never forgive this.
"It doesn't matter," Sinbad says, sharp and terse. "Fin's alive, and you're safe now. That's all that matters."
It's important, yes, Maeve knows. If she and her baby die, Scratch will win Sinbad's soul. He could attempt to conceive another child before Samhain but they both know he won't, and anyway his time is running out. Without another teas to help his odds, his chances aren't good. Maeve doesn't know the date, but she suspects they have less than two moons until Samhain, if that. Scratch timed his attack perfectly. Sinbad has plenty of time to agonize over his fate, but not enough to fight it.
"You could go find another girl," she says, already knowing his answer. "I wouldn't hold it against you." He should have done so from the start. They were fools to place all their hopes on the survival of one fragile little unborn soul. That's not fair to Fin. Maeve should have seen this for what it was: not a romance, but a battle. She is the army, Fin her weapon. The happy ending never comes in the middle of the story.
He nuzzles her cheek fondly, and the tip of his tongue emerges to taste her skin. It's a bestial, possessive gesture, and she loves it. "You know I can't. And I wouldn't if I could."
"Being cold's not so bad," she says, but behind her tough words lies the truth. The cold she feels when he leaves her isn't just an uncomfortable side effect, whether he realizes it or not. It's the removal of the energy source keeping her alive. If he goes too far or tarries too long, she'll die. Without Finleigh she would willingly sacrifice her life for the chance to save his, but while her daughter needs her she can't. This was the vow she gave when she agreed to bear a child—to protect her daughter first. Even before her father.
"We're a team now, the three of us." His hand is gentle on her belly. "We're in this together."
Yes, they are. Live or die, they're going to do it together. She holds him tight, deeply regretful for everything that this curse has done to him, the changes she sees so starkly in him. Gone is the carefree sailor she met on the Isle of Dawn, cocky and brash, ready to face danger head-on. This prolonged fight for his soul has aged him, turned him cautious and fearful, and she doesn't know whether winning will return him to what he once was. These changes may be permanent. She loves him regardless, but she mourns the loss as she would mourn the loss of his leg, or his sight. He's still Sinbad. But not as he once was.
"When I thought you were gone…." He shakes his head sharply. "Please, don't ever make me feel like that again. You swore to me that you would never leave me. Never run from me. I know you didn't mean to, and I don't blame you for any of this. But please, if you love me, never put me through that again."
Never. She remembers her promise, the vow she made after Scratch goaded her into running. Sinbad begged her not to leave him, then as now. She promised, though she was unsure of her ability to keep her vow. She's more confident now. Where could she go? She's in the safest place she knows, and she'll die if she tries to leave him anyway. He has nothing to worry about. She's his, so long as death doesn't take her. They're far too enmeshed for even her pigheaded stubbornness to deny it. "Come here." She winds her arms around him, drawing him down to her. He curls around her, holding her as firmly as he dares. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you I would see this through, and I will. I never wanted a man to keep but you're stuck with us now."
"I never wanted a woman to keep, but I have a sinking suspicion you were stuck with me the moment you met Dim-Dim." He kisses her forehead, the bridge of her nose.
"You can ask him when we finally find him." She yawns into his shoulder. The ability to touch him again feels ridiculously good. She can see him in the soft gleam of the light-globe, can press her body to his, kiss his mouth without fear of discovery. She'd fill this room full of light-globes, tear him out of his clothes, and fuck him senseless if she could. Keely very specifically forbid any such thing and she's too weak besides, but she'd do it in a moment were she able. For joy, and for spite. Scratch and Rumina deserve to hear Sinbad's pleasure as she pushes him over the edge. Actually they don't, but they'd hate it, which would make her endlessly happy. Sinbad may not hold grudges but she can be viciously spiteful when she chooses. Right now she is. She wants to hurt them as badly as they've hurt her, and she doesn't care who knows it. She wants to take away everything they love, as they tried to take everyone from her. Except she's not sure either of them are capable of love. Rumina is certainly capable of lust, of desire, but Maeve has no idea what or who the witch might truly care for. As Sinbad noted before, without Turok, her garden may be empty.
Maeve tucks herself into the warmth of Sinbad's body, feeling her little store of energy running out. She's still very sick, and this has proven to be too much for her. She yawns into his skin, eyes heavy with sleep despite her many worries. Principal in her thoughts is the troubling way Sinbad speaks about his brother. She doesn't like the dark portent in his voice. This isn't over. Sinbad may think it is, try to tell himself it is, but she knows better. His anger is not yet spent and, until it is, danger remains. He has to find a way to move past the fury, the hurt. He doesn't have to forgive, which may prove impossible for him, but he has to learn to let go. Wallowing will only cause further pain, and they can't go back. Not to what they used to be. Not from this.
"Sleep, firebrand," he says, as if he can feel the exhaustion creeping back into her body. Maybe he can. He's the conduit, after all, the living link between her and the power in his bracelet. He holds her sweetly, his arms tender around her. She can feel his love in the way he molds his body to hers, wrapping himself around her, ensuring her comfort, her warmth. She entwines their ankles, wishing she could turn and sleep half on top of him as she used to, but Fin is too big now even were she able to change positions. "I'll read to you," Sinbad promises. "When you're feeling better and can stay awake for it. Would you like that?"
"Please." She'd love it. She'd want it now, except she can't keep her eyes open even for the promise of his rough-soft voice. "Love you, sailor." She's asleep before he answers.
"Are your books gathered, my dear? Everything ready to go? The ship will be arriving any day now."
Maeve stares out at the horizon without turning to the little old man behind her. "I still don't see why we have to go."
"Everything in its own season. The time for dreams is over, the time for action begun. In days beyond ours people will use a sharp tick-ticking sound to measure time, not the hiss of sand through an hourglass as we do. I can hear it even now, feel it like the beat of my old heart."
How it happened Maeve isn't sure, but she loves the cryptic old man. He's become as dear to her as her own kin, more cherished than the fantasy of grandparents she never knew. When they first met she found his mind thoroughly obtuse and impenetrable, and she mistrusted his way of speaking. She knows better now. At times he teaches in riddles, but never without a purpose. Always he seeks to further her knowledge, her abilities.
"A farmer knows in his bones when the time comes to sow the fields," she says, turning from the western horizon, focusing instead on what lies before her: a rose garden perpetually in bloom, perpetually tended by the little old man.
"And a sailor can feel a coming storm," he agrees. "You will learn these things, too, with time."
"And study?" she says somewhat doubtfully, as she hefts the book she's supposed to be reading.
Dim-Dim chuckles. "I suppose. Knowledge is not the same as wisdom, though it helps." He tosses a small cushion to the soil and holds his staff for support as he moves stiffly to his knees, intent on weeding his flowerbeds.
"You should let me do that," she scolds him lightly, though she knows he won't. He prefers to tend his flowers himself, no matter the state of his knees.
"Your time is better spent with your books for now. I suspect your available hours with them will shrink severely once we leave."
Maeve's mouth compresses in an unhappy line and she sits abruptly on a weathered tree stump. Dermott scolds her from his nearby perch. She's not altogether unhappy with the prospect of travel. Her inner restlessness, her urge to roam, has chafed at confinement on Dim-Dim's mystical island. But she's wary of her mentor's pronouncement about the upcoming voyage. And there's still so much she doesn't understand. This is how things often are with Dim-Dim, but that doesn't mean she likes it.
"Why won't you tell me where we're going?"
"I don't know exactly where, but that's not really what you want to know," the old sorcerer says with a smile as he pulls the little green shoots that will strangle his roses if he lets them grow. "You have graduated to the next phase in your studies, and it is one that requires more of you than mere rote and eyewash."
"Mere what?"
"Indoctrination," he says with a little grunt as he pulls at a stubborn root with his gnarled little hands. "Memorization. The time for that is past. Now you need to learn application. And you cannot do that safe on an island made of dreams."
Maeve stares at the book in her hands. It's one of the new ones Dim-Dim only allowed her to open a week ago, untouched on a dusty shelf until now. She loves the feel of books in her hands—their heft, weighty with the time and expense necessary to produce them, but also with the knowledge they preserve and convey, passed down through the ages. Dim-Dim does not live like a wealthy man, but he has a treasure-trove of priceless books at his disposal. How he acquired them she doesn't know. She's never pried into his past, as he's never pried into hers. He knows what Dermott is, knows she needs to free him. She knows the old sorcerer, like her brother, is far more than what he seems. That's enough for now.
"How do you know that I'm ready?" This is her real question, the fear that has haunted her sleepless nights since Dim-Dim first informed her that they would be leaving. "What if I'm not?"
"The time is ripe. The season of quiet reflection has ended. Now you must do as all young people do, and learn to measure yourself not against someone else's ruler, but against the tasks ahead."
But what if I'm not good enough? This fear continues to plague her heart, crowding out all others.
"Do you think me cruel, child?"
"No," she says, an automatic answer but the truth nonetheless. How could she? He's taken her in, offered her shelter and schooling for the price of some trifling help around his house, help she's very sure he doesn't actually need and could afford to hire if he did.
"When baby birds get too big for the nest, the mother pushes them out. That's how they learn to fly." He offers her his open palm, on which sit the beautiful blue shards of a robin's cracked eggshell, a species she's sure does not live so far south. "You came to me not as a baby bird, but as a young adult who was never truly a child, so please forgive an old man the analogy." He nods cheerfully at Dermott. "My point is that you will never achieve anything you want if you remain here."
"I know," she says softly. She does. And she's never been good at sitting still, anyway. But her time on this island with Dim-Dim has been peaceful. Soothing. And she's learned so much. Now he expects her to go out into the world and apply it. She doesn't know that she's ready, but at least he's coming with her. And Dermott, too, of course. She won't be alone.
"And you and my boy Sinbad have much in common. You may be more useful to each other than you think."
Maeve has no tactful answer to this, so she remains quiet. The one subject Dim-Dim prattles on about that she dislikes is the orphan brothers he raised, particularly the younger one. He sounds, in his adoptive father's glowing tales, like the consummate embodiment of a perfect hero, which means she suspects in reality he's a cocky little bastard. No one is that perfect, even in his father's telling.
But she will not tell Dim-Dim so. The old man loves his Sinbad as if he were truly his son, and she has no right to interfere with or question that devotion. These people aren't her family, after all. She's the interloper, a vagrant from the north desperately seeking aid this sorcerer is willing to give. That's all. She feels a great deal of obligation to him, and a great deal of fondness, but he'll never think of her the way he thinks of his boys.
Boys who are older than her, she has to remind herself. Dim-Dim tells stories of their childhood but they're men grown now. She can't expect gangly stringbeans when she meets them.
"The coming tests will be difficult for you," Dim-Dim says, returning to his weeding. "I wish I could change that, but I can't."
"But you'll be there if I need you," she says, staring at the book in her lap. Sanskrit makes her head hurt. The word order feels all wrong in her mind, jumbling the meanings of the phrases.
"I'm humbled you place such trust in me, child."
Her dark eyes snap to her teacher. His words don't alarm her, but the quiet way he says them does. She's instantly wary. She's had her world shattered too many times not to know the signs. Something's coming. Something more than what he's already told her.
"Don't fret, my dear. Please. All may yet be very well."
Maeve does not like this. At all. She stares hard at her mentor, wondering if demanding answers will do any good. Usually it doesn't. Suddenly she feels like a small child on a sled approaching a cliff far too steep to survive. She can see the edge, almost feel the plunge in her belly. But she's moving too fast to stop now.
"Are you afraid?" she asks instead.
The old man sits back on his heels and blinks at her owlishly, and a strange smile crosses his mouth. "You know, it's been a very long time since anyone asked me that. I don't think any of my students has ever surprised me as often as you do. Not even my Sinbad." He scratches the scraggles of his short beard, leaving a smear of mud. "I am not afraid. Not in the way you mean. But I dislike that learning must, at times, be painful. I fear that it will be soon for you and Sinbad both."
Maeve does not like this, either. And she dislikes how Dim-Dim keeps lumping her and Sinbad together, as if somehow their destinies are intertwined. They're not. She has Dermott. Her family back in Eire, though she hasn't seen them in...a long time. She neither needs nor wants anyone else, especially an arrogant southern sailor who fancies himself some sort of hero. "You're not afraid of Turok?"
"Turok? He's a dangerous one to underestimate, as is his daughter. But he is still a man, like any other. And like any other, he has his weaknesses."
Maeve stares at the beautiful script of her book without seeing it. "That means Rumina has her weaknesses, too." Funny. It doesn't feel like it. She shatters so many lives so swiftly, and laughs while doing so.
"She does," Dim-Dim says, smiling gently at her. Maeve lifts her eyes to her mentor, seeking...she doesn't quite know what. Reassurance. Faith. Answers to questions she doesn't even know how to ask. He's seen so much, battled so many demons, both real and figurative. It feels as if he must have all the answers by now. "You won't thank me for the comparison, but you and Rumina are not wholly unalike."
Maeve draws back. Were she a cat she'd hiss at the sorcerer. Dermott does it for her, his feathers puffing indignantly as he screeches his opinion of Dim-Dim's words.
The old man laughs. "Don't ruffle yourself, my boy. It's only the truth. Maeve, you and Rumina are opposites in many ways, but if you ignore your similarities you do yourself—and her—a grave injustice. You and she have similar goals, believe it or not."
"He's my brother," she spits through clenched teeth. "She never had any claim to him!"
"I don't mean anything so literal as that. What is it that you want, child? Why are you here, so far from your home? What are you searching for? Don't think literally. Why is it so important to you to free your brother from her curse? What will you gain? What will she lose?" The old man stands abruptly, pulling himself to his feet with the aid of the silver staff that stood magically beside him, at the ready, while he knelt. "Ah, look. There's Sinbad now."
Maeve stands, too. And yes, she can see a little ship approaching the island's natural harbor, wind rippling its white sails. It's nothing special, just a nondescript little ship like any she might see in a southern port city.
"Head down the hill and bring him to me, please, my dear?" Dim-Dim brushes the dirt from his palms. One fingertip is smeared with blood where a thorn poked him. Odd. She's never seen him caught by a rose before. "We haven't time to lose. And Maeve? I will always be with you. I promise you that."
Maeve wakes blearily to the dim illumination of a single light-globe again. Sinbad is lost to dreams beside her, but he apparently loathes the darkness as much as she does these days. After spending so long hiding, he's not putting up with that shit here.
She's glad.
She moves slowly, cupping his warm cheek in her hand, smoothing her thumb over the dark skin under his eye. He's careworn, haggard and tired from supporting her with his energy. She kisses the corner of his mouth gently, so gently, as he sleeps. His head turns slightly, seeking her warmth, the touch of her mouth, even in sleep. She gives it happily, kissing him, sucking his smooth lower lip into her mouth for a moment. He exhales against her skin but doesn't wake.
She loves him so much.
Dreaming of her last hours on the Isle of Dawn, her last conversation with Dim-Dim before everything changed, is bittersweet. She's amused by memories of how much she resented the idea of Sinbad even before she met him. She assumed he would be an insufferable asshole, but with the distance provided by time she's able to see that at least part of her animosity was caused by jealousy. She loved Dim-Dim and wanted to mean as much to him as his adopted sons did, though she wasn't willing to admit this to herself. Now she understands. Yes, Sinbad is insufferable at times. Too cocky for his own good. But he earned that swagger honestly, and most of the time she can't fault him for it.
She still doesn't understand how Dim-Dim could possibly compare her to Rumina, but she trusts that he knew what he was talking about. He knows her better than she knows herself. When she can answer his questions, explain what it is she seeks in the south, then she'll know. Not before.
The way he left her hurts, and she presses close to Sinbad's sleeping warmth, easing this pain with a very physical, tactile pleasure. He knew. He may not have known he would be cursed by a demon, but he knew he was going to leave her. But he said nothing, let her believe he would be with her for this next phase of her studies. He even told her he would always be with her, though she understands now that he did not mean it literally. He's with her in the books he left her. In the playful side of Sinbad and Doubar's natures. But she can ask these things no questions, expect from them no tutelage except what she can glean on her own. She thought her first voyage on the Nomad would be like a floating classroom for her and her mentor. Instead she was forced to limp along alone, learning to teach herself as the need arose. She can only assume Dim-Dim knew she was up to the challenge, because she sure as hell didn't. She doesn't even now.
Did he know about this, though? She rests her hand on her belly, Fin quiet inside her as nighttime silence engulfs the house. Did he know Sinbad would be cursed? Did he place her strategically in his adopted son's path specifically for this purpose? She never contemplated this before, but Sinbad's careless comment earlier now has her wondering. Dim-Dim knows the future in a way other sorcerers do not. But not even he knows everything.
Sinbad shifts beside her, his arms contracting, drawing her closer to his bare chest. The perfect warmth of him, the peaceful quiet of the night, makes Maeve decide that it really doesn't matter what Dim-Dim knew or chose to do with that knowledge. Sinbad is hers, irrevocably. Finleigh is proof of that. No matter how it happened, or why, they're a family now. A team, as Sinbad stated. She tucks herself deeper into his embrace, exhaling a soft sigh that takes most of her sorrow with it. She still doesn't know how she feels about Doubar, about Dermott, about Antoine, all the myriad resentments and betrayals that have plagued her family since she agreed to this gods-be-damned protocol. But she knows what she's going to do, and she knows what she wants. She's going to get better, going to save up her energy, and she's going to beat Scratch and Rumina on Samhain. She's going to return here to have her baby in peace, with the help and support of Keely and Wren. And then she and Sinbad and Fin are going back to the Nomad, where they belong. It's their home. Their daughter's birthright. And Sinbad needs to be there. He followed her north without a second thought, without a glance behind, but he doesn't belong stuck behind stone walls any more than she does. She loves him for his willingness to give up the sea, but she doesn't want his sacrifice. She chose her life, her future, the day she agreed to the protocol, and despite the heartache that decision has caused, she refuses to regret it. Not with all she's gained.
She falls asleep again smiling softly, her cheek resting lightly in the crook of Sinbad's arm.
