A/N: Happy holidays! I promised a little more action in this chapter and I hope I came through. I've kept Rongar's backstory from "Ali Rashid and the Thieves" largely intact, though you know me and I do like to muck with details. :)
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Someone's watching him. Doubar stares at the rotting wood of the creaking pier and refuses to look up. What does it matter if someone stares or judges him? Sinbad is gone, disappeared with the stranger whose name Doubar stubbornly refuses to remember. He disowned Doubar thoroughly, denying everything they are to each other. And left. Will he ever see him again? He doesn't know, and the likelihood seems to shrink with each passing moment.
Doubar was twelve years old and at lessons with Dim-Dim when his father summoned him home abruptly one afternoon. He placed a red, wrinkly newborn wrapped in soft linen in Doubar's arms.
"This is your new brother," the elder Sinbad said. "Delivered just this hour. Your sisters weren't strong enough for this world, but my son is. He's like you. You must promise me now, son—promise me and your mother. That you will always watch over him. Look after him. Brotherhood is forever. He'll be yours longer than he'll be mine, so I need you to understand what I'm saying to you. Do you? Promise me."
And Doubar promised. What else could he do? His father was so serious, so solemn it almost scared him. He stared at the little wrinkly thing in his arms, and didn't know why his father thought the new baby was so strong. He didn't really look any different from the girls, Nasira and Salma, who both died swiftly when a rash of sickness swept through Baghdad. Nasira was toddling, Salma still a babe in arms when Doubar's mother placed them in the ground, surrounded by so many others lost to the scourge. This new Sinbad doesn't look any hardier. His little legs are scrawny like a chicken's, and his squashed face looks like a little old man's.
Then he opens his eyes and they focus, just for a moment, on his brother. They're his mother's eyes, blue as lapis.
"Brothers take care of brothers. I know you're not close in age, but you share the same blood, the same legacy. Protect him, and he'll do the same for you. He's not much to look at now, but he'll grow swiftly. And Master Dim-Dim expects great things of him. I expect nothing less of either of my sons."
Doubar only ever tried to keep that promise made to his father so long ago. To protect the baby brother his father was so pleased to give him, and so adamant that he watch over. He hardly remembers his sisters, but they were never very present in his life to begin with. They stayed apart, sheltered with his mother and her female servants, often with the ladies of the caliph's court. He lived in a boy's world, a man's world, with his friends, his father, his tutor. He revered his mother as his father said he must, but he spent very little time with her, and less as he grew.
But with Sinbad, things were different. Doubar took his vow seriously, as seriously as his father bade him, and that vow echoed in his head the night a storm took their parents, the night he saved his baby brother from a watery grave. It echoes within his skull even now as he stares at the choppy water, the flat grey sky. He swore to his father that he would always take care of his little brother. Always protect him.
So what happens now?
"Doubar."
Firouz. Doubar blinks slowly at the water before him, the few ships in the harbor. He hears Firouz breathing softly beside him. These things still register in his mind, but they feel very far away. Like half-recalled dreams, or memories of childhood. They drift like flotsam on his surface, never moving deeper.
"Doubar. Are you there?"
Is he? He doesn't know anymore. He's been Sinbad's older brother for most of his life. If Sinbad is gone, what does that make him now? Is he even himself without his brother? He used to believe they were flipsides of a coin, unique yet indivisible. Clearly Sinbad doesn't feel the same. He discarded him so easily, surrendering their long history to follow after a foreign girl.
"I'm wondering something."
Doubar blinks slowly. His feet don't want to move and his mouth holds no words, so he lets Firouz talk. It does no harm. No good, either, but can anything be good anymore? He used to think he understood this world, understood his place in it. He trusted in the triumph of good over evil just as surely as he trusted in each day's sunrise. His place at Sinbad's side was as constant and unchanging as the call of the muezzins from their minarets. And like a minaret to the faithful, this was the pillar around which he built his world, fashioned his entire existence. Without it, everything has crashed to ruins.
"Do you remember that island with the trickster demigod? The one who made us face our worst fears?"
Doubar feels nothing, not even a hint of irritation at Firouz's prattle. He remembers, he guesses. But he doesn't understand why Firouz would want to discuss it now. He has no interest in reminiscing about past adventures. Sinbad was there, on the trickster's island. Sinbad revealed the demigod's ruse. He saved the whole crew, as he so often saves them, with his clever mind. Far cleverer than Doubar's has ever been.
"I was just wondering," Firouz continues, "because I remember. And I remember the fear you faced that day. It was a man. I don't recall his name—I'm sorry. You called him the Butcher. A slayer of women and children."
Doubar's eyes close spasmodically. Yes, he remembers. Fortasa was an enforcer for one of Baghdad's most notorious street gangs. Many people fall into lives of crime due to circumstance, but not this man. He tortured and killed because he wanted to. Because he liked to. His employers exploited this happily. Many street-rough men who will kill a fellow man without blinking still falter when ordered to pull to pieces a living, sobbing child. Fortasa did not. He liked to sing along with his victims' screams. Doubar killed him without regret, and the entire city slept better because of it. He even received a commendation from the caliph for his bravery, though for him bravery didn't really enter into it. He saw a man who needed to be stopped. Sinbad agreed. So he stopped him. That was it.
"I just...what happened to that man, Doubar? Not the one you killed. The one you were. The man whose worst nightmare was a villain who attacked innocent women and children. On the trickster's island you thought Maeve had become your villain, but when the magic broke and you saw your mistake, you halted your attack. You apologized. You were horrified at even the suggestion that you'd ever put your hands on her. I'm an intelligent man, but I admit I'm at a loss. The workings of the inner mind are not a science I readily comprehend. What changed? Why did you suddenly become a man willing to attack a woman and her unborn child, and unwilling to admit the mistake afterward? Mistakes are how we grow. They're a crucial part of the scientific process, in fact. Observe, hypothesize, experiment, analyze, and begin again with a clearer understanding. Over and over. I'm convinced the ability to do that, Doubar, is what sets us apart from the animals. Please, will you help me? Help me understand."
Doubar stares at the slate-gray water. How can he help Firouz understand when he doesn't himself? He doesn't know what happened to him, how he managed to somehow become the thing he most despised. He never thought about it that way before. Is he truly Fortasa?
No. No, he can't be that far gone, can he? Yes, he hit a woman who was no physical threat to him. And apparently she was with child, though he didn't know that at the time. But he didn't mean to hurt her. Not like Fortasa. He just wanted...he doesn't know anymore. To protect his brother. To shut her mouth. To maybe feel just a little bit better. He was drunk, and Sinbad wasn't there to tell him to stop. The voice in his head, the voice Firouz calls his conscience, was in total agreement with the rest of him. He has many reasons, but faced with Firouz's questions none of them seem to be enough anymore.
They haven't, truthfully, since he did it.
"I don't understand anything these days," he says. He wants his brother, not the inventor. Firouz is a good, kind man and a loyal friend, but he's not Sinbad. "And I can't do anything right. Go find help somewhere else."
Doubar touches his work-rough fingertips to his ruined face. His nose is still a swollen mess he can barely breathe through, and he's only just regaining the ability to chew on the left side of his jaw. The teeth Sinbad knocked loose may or may not ever tighten back up, and he'll wear the scars of his brother's fury for the rest of his life. He really doesn't care about that. Women have never liked him for his beauty, because he never had any. They like his laugh, his storytelling ability, the sweet singing voice they're shocked to hear from a grizzled old sea dog. But in this moment he doubts he'll ever sing again, and women are far from his mind.
"Who else but you can help me climb inside your head?" Firouz asks, dogged in his persistence.
"You don't want to climb inside my head." Doubar has no wish to be here, himself, but he has no choice. "Your new captain seems to think he knows so all-fired much. Talia says he thinks Dermott's a man. Ask him, since he's so smart."
"Rongar does have a seemingly innate capacity for observation and analysis. But he's busy. I sent him and Talia off on their errand alone. You've been staring at the water for...quite some time."
A hand touches Doubar's shoulder. It's not Sinbad's but it's warm and firm. Firouz isn't the brother he wants, but he's here. He's not ignoring him. Not yelling. Or running away.
"Why are you still here?" Doubar asks, narrowing his eyes at the inventor as he finally turns toward him. His neck is stiff from staring down into the murky water so long. He raises his head slowly, feeling the ache down the length of his spine.
"The human mind is an impossible mystery to me. And you're my brother. Let Rongar and Talia see their soothsayer. I place very little stock in prognostication, anyway. I'm more concerned with my friend."
Doubar eyes him. "You're not mad at me? I thought everyone was."
"Oh, I'm extremely angry with you. That's why I want so badly to understand. Maybe, if I can see things from your perspective, I won't have to be so angry anymore. Nobody is happy, Doubar. I know you're miserable, but you have to understand that the rest of us are, too. We stand to lose the same things you do—our brother, our home. Our sister. The crew we built, the purpose we serve. But yelling at you or breaking your face again won't undo what's already been done, and I don't believe it will bring any good, either. So please. I don't understand what's happened to you, and I think I need to. Maybe it's the scientist in me. Maybe the brother. I don't know which."
Doubar lowers his head again, and his whole body slumps as he exhales a long breath. He's defeated by Firouz's quiet entreaties as he has not been by anyone else's screams or fists. "I don't know how to help you."
"Just bear with me. Try. The scientific method will prevail even in a situation such as this, I'm convinced."
Doubar isn't convinced of anything anymore. Everything in the world he thought he knew has turned out to be wrong, but he keeps his mouth shut and does not say this. Opening his mouth without being asked gets him into trouble, he's learned that much. He snarled at Sinbad today out of hurt, and only succeeded in digging himself deeper.
"My first observation," Firouz says, "breaking this mess down into hopefully manageable pieces, is that you're principally angry at Maeve. You have been for moons. Because you thought she refused to be Sinbad's champion, correct?"
"Of course that's correct," Doubar snaps, but it's just reflex. He has no room for irritation within him. He feels like one giant bruise, any prodding intensely painful. What else he feels he cannot name, only that he hates it and wishes he could escape the feeling. But Talia took away all the alcohol and Rongar forbid any wandering in the city so he can't even go in search of a tavern.
"Excellent. That leads to my first question—why are you still so angry now?" Firouz blinks at him, his curly hair bobbing across his forehead in the humid wind. His face is open and guileless as he seeks answers, puzzling at Doubar as he puzzles at his inventions. His questions are his tools. As he often works to adjust a spring or fine-tune a gear, now he works at the former first mate. Doubar isn't sure he likes this, but he's too distracted to take offense. "Even if you don't trust Maeve anymore, you trust me, don't you?" Firouz asks, and he's so earnest that Doubar can't disagree. "I saw her with my own eyes. Distrust her if you will. Distrust Sinbad. But I never lied to you, and I'm telling you now that she's quite gravid."
"She's what?"
"Ah—with child. Carrying. Pregnant. I'm unclear whether any of the common phrases are considered offensive or not."
"Probably not any of the ones you've heard." Doubar's heard plenty others that he decides it's best not to mention.
"Well, in any case, you trust me, don't you?"
"Yes," Doubar snaps, and he folds himself to a seat on the weathered wood of the dock. "And I don't need to be told yet again that she's carrying. I didn't know at the time. I do now. Everyone's yelled at me enough about it."
"You did try to deny it," Firouz says gently.
He knows. He doesn't really want to admit even now that he was wrong, but when everyone around him says the same thing, who is he to protest? He knows he's not the brightest. "Not anymore," he says dully.
"Then, if we take our reasoning a step further, you must admit that you were wrong today and her child is unquestionably Sinbad's."
Doubar scowls. He doesn't want to admit that, and he doesn't have to. "You have no proof."
"I have the next best thing. Logic. No matter how angry you are with her, I don't believe even you truly think she would betray Sinbad like that."
"Why not?" Doubar demands. "Women do it every day."
"Not with a man's soul at stake. Sinbad needs that child to be his. Unless you believe Maeve is secretly scheming with Scratch and Rumina to damn him. Do you believe that?"
Doubar stares blankly at the inventor. Firouz has caught him. No beating from his brother or bellow from Talia managed to do it, but Firouz's logic did. No matter how much he wants to continue denying the child Maeve carries, he can't refute Firouz. Maeve hates Rumina with a fury that rivals the noontide sun. She would never, never scheme with her, work with her. Even on the trickster's island, under Sinbad's orders, she could barely keep her sword to herself. She might or might not be willing to bargain with Scratch—that he can't say. But not Rumina. Even he can't accuse her of that.
And according to Firouz, if she's not scheming with Rumina that means the child she carries must be Sinbad's.
"They lied to me," he murmurs, staring, unseeing, at the dock.
"Doubar," Firouz says gently.
Maeve would throw herself into the sea before she would willingly work with Rumina. Doubar has known that since their first voyage together. This is perhaps the thing he knows best about her, and maybe the only thing he still trusts where she's concerned. He knows nothing about her past, her people, her place in the world. He thought she was alone, she and her weird little bird, a vagrant Dim-Dim took in much like he took in Sinbad and Doubar so many years ago. But that assumption has been turned on its head lately with all the Celts popping in and out, and then those things, those people with wings. She's not at all who he thought she was. Although, Doubar realizes, he never really thought much about it. About her. She was a member of the crew, his moody, amusing, fierce little sister. Nothing more. He never dreamed she might be anything else.
But he knows still, without a doubt, that she would never work with Rumina to steal Sinbad's soul. Which means he fucked up. Badly. Worse than ever before. Firouz is right. He's not a protector anymore. He's Fortasa.
"Doubar," Firouz repeats. "Are you still with me?"
"They lied to me."
"Is that why you're still so upset? I thought you might be relieved."
"That they lied?"
"That she's carrying the child Sinbad needs to save his soul. That is what you wanted from the beginning, isn't it?"
It was. But things swiftly became far more complicated than that, and right now Doubar doubts he'll ever be happy again. "I want my brother safe. But they lied to me for moons." That's not right. Brothers don't lie to brothers. Doubar feels anger rise in him again, the helpless, impotent frustration that everyone seems to know something critical that he does not. They let him worry himself sick for moons and he's still not completely convinced they weren't laughing about it the whole time.
"They lied to all of us," Firouz says gently, "and for good reason. Can you understand that? Rumina and Scratch were watching. Listening. If Sinbad tried to tell you the truth, our enemies might have heard him. Might have read a note if he tried to write it down. The rest of us might have acted differently toward Maeve or accidentally let something slip without meaning to. I'm not upset with them for trying to prevent that. I admit I felt quite foolish when I realized the truth. I like to pride myself on my observational skills, but in this case they were sorely lacking. That's not Sinbad's fault, or Maeve's. Rumina would have killed her in an instant if she knew, and Sinbad's best chance at fighting Scratch would have been lost."
Doubar scowls. His head understands, but his heart still hurts. He does not like how much sense the inventor makes in his calm, measured voice. He wants to be angry, and he wants that anger to be right. It feels better than the alternative: being Fortasa.
"I know how difficult it is to feel foolish, Doubar," Firouz says, looking up at him plainly. "I understand the beautiful intricacies of Euclidean geometry, but I often feel adrift when faced with a roomful of people." He smiles a small, self-deprecating smile. "The mysteries of human nature. We can't all be great at everything. Your command of an audience when you sing or tell stories is a gift I will never have. And as a man of medicine I felt very foolish that I didn't see the signs in Maeve earlier. I comforted myself with explanations: I've never closely observed a pregnant woman before, and she didn't want anyone to know. She hid the signs well, behind a pile of excuses and I suspect a great deal of plain grit. I never questioned her."
"Rongar knew. Talia knew."
"Rongar was watching Sinbad's behavior, clues I don't pick up easily. Talia is a woman, and she's very good at reading people. She has to be, to survive in her line of work."
Doubar knows that. She's conned him out of plenty of coin in the past, usually over the gaming table. He bears her no malice for it—that's just who she is, and he has fun with her, though he always ends up with empty pockets afterward. He breathes slowly, scowling as he tries to keep up with Firouz's quick mind. "You never questioned Maeve?" He maybe feels a little better if her lies tricked the scientist, too.
"Never." Firouz toes at a knot in the wooden plank below him. "Not until I saw her after Rumina's time spell. Without all of those layers she wears, and suddenly so physically frail, it was very plain. I thought she would likely miscarry those days she spent unresponsive. She was so ill, and she seemed to have given up. I wanted to warn Sinbad, but I couldn't without giving everything away. She got better, though. Fought through it. I still don't know how."
Was she really so desperately sick? Doubar doubted there was anything truly the matter with her at the time, insisting to himself that she was lazing about, taking advantage of Sinbad's permissive leadership. He refused to see what was in front of him. Even now he struggles to remember what she looked like just before she disappeared. She's always just been...Maeve. Tall and loud and bright and brash. She's sinfully beautiful, but he's never wanted her as a woman. She belongs to Dim-Dim, so he considers her off-limits, and she's too loud and angry and irritating for his taste, anyway. He likes his girls softer and sweeter than Maeve could ever be.
But no matter how much he and Firouz failed to see, Doubar still feels intensely angry, furious to his core. They lied to him. He believed both Maeve and Sinbad when they told him she would not be his champion. Maeve never gave him any reason to mistrust her before, that he knows of, and Sinbad has never, never lied to him in their lives.
Or has he?
Faced with the truth of this overwhelming deception, no matter the reason, Doubar is forced to look at his brother in a different light and he absolutely does not want to. He struggles desperately against it, but his mind will not let him ignore this. How many lies? How much of what he believes about the man he loves most in the world is true, and how much...not? And how can he ever trust anything Sinbad or Maeve says again, knowing what he knows now?
"They did what they had to do, Doubar," Firouz says. "At least, that's how I see it. The truth would have killed her and damned him. Do you really want that?"
No, of course he doesn't. Sinbad is his brother. The flipside to his coin. He swore a vow to their dead father to always watch over him. To stay by his side. "I'd do anything to keep that curse from him," he says softly. Except he's afraid that he may have done just the opposite.
"I have a hypothesis. One you may not like, but the scientific method is clear. Hypotheses must be tested." Firouz looks a little wary. "I wonder whether you may not be so angry after all. No, forgive me—that's imprecise. I wonder, rather, whether you're not principally angry. Just...hurt. Afraid. Something else that triggers your anger, as a finger triggers a crossbow. Wounded animals lash out, after all. That's why cornered prey is so dangerous."
"I am not," Doubar seethes, "a wild boar with a spear through his back!"
Firouz cocks his head to the side, studying Doubar as he often studies a map. "Aren't you?"
"I think I've had just about all the scientific method I can stomach." Doubar's jaw clamps down. Oh, that hurts. His jaw isn't healed enough for that.
"In my mind, it's an apt metaphor. You were an animal caught in a trap, whether of your own making or Scratch's is open to debate. You lashed out at Maeve when she tried to free you from it. A natural reaction from cornered prey, but she wasn't the hunter come to kill you, Doubar."
"I know that!" he bellows, and he wants to slap his hands over his ears like a small child refusing to listen to its father's lecture, wants to run swiftly, far, far from here. But nowhere is far enough away from himself. He's not really running from Firouz. "I know that now." His voice is softer as he gives up this fight. Firouz can call him a wounded boar if he likes. He can call him Fortasa. Doubar deserves it.
"Sinbad means more to you than anything else in this world. More than your own life. Your own soul. My hypothesis, humble as it is, is that it hurt you deeply to believe Maeve might not feel the same loyalty toward your brother that you do. That she might not so readily sacrifice for him as you would."
Doubar's head hangs. "I swore an oath. Promised our father to always watch over him." He needed an action to take, a monster to fight. He thought for a short while that he'd done so. Maeve became his monster. But was it all only on the one side?
"A very noble vow. But he's a man grown now. He has been for some time." Firouz gives a sheepish little shrug. "Human emotions are somewhat impenetrable to me. I feel them deeply, but I don't understand them as I understand the laws of science. You can tell me I'm wrong. I won't be upset. But I still suspect, as I suggested once moons ago, that you may be experiencing a bit of envy. Of loss."
"Of course I feel loss! Sinbad isn't here, and he may never come back!" Doubar struggles to keep calm, to not storm off or pound the nearest upright with his fists.
"That's not what I mean. I mean that Maeve is now the most important person in Sinbad's life. He'll always be your brother, but she's the partner at his side now, his wife in all but name."
"A wife is not a partner," Doubar snarls. No woman can take his place at Sinbad's side. Brothers stick together. Brothers are forever. Doesn't Firouz know that?
Except Doubar's alone now, so what does he know?
"Most men don't want women as partners, but Sinbad has never been one for convention and Maeve is not an ordinary woman. I may not be quick at picking up these things, but it's obvious to me upon reflection and evaluation. You were going to be supplanted even before this curse, Doubar. Scratch and Rumina merely hurried things along."
Doubar opens his mouth to roar at the inventor, to hurl insults, to insist he's wrong and he needs to stick to science. No words come. Sinbad followed her north without looking back. Left Doubar. Left Talia and the chance she represented. Left his beloved ship in an instant. All for Maeve. Judging by his words today, he doesn't regret it.
"People change, Doubar," Firouz says gently. "Heraclitus said that the only constant in life is change, and he was right. You swore an oath to your father to protect a boy, but he's a man now."
Doubar knows. In some ways, Sinbad has been a grown man longer than he himself has. Since he left with the Adventurers, maybe. Or maybe since he lost Leah. They remained flipsides of a coin because Doubar was willing to go wherever his brother went, do whatever his brother did. Except now, he's gone where Doubar cannot follow. Not just up north. Somewhere else, too—somewhere Doubar has no place. He's entered a partnership with someone else.
"If you hadn't attacked her, I could try to be more comforting. Tell you you'll always have a place in Sinbad's heart, on his crew. That Maeve is no threat to what you and your brother share. That change doesn't have to be a bad thing. As it is…" He shrugs helplessly. "I know you were drinking. I know you were angry. I still don't understand why you snapped."
Doubar doesn't, either. How is he supposed to know anything for sure if Sinbad isn't here to tell him? "You told me before to listen to my conscience. The voice inside my head that tells me right from wrong. The voice in my head was telling me to do it. That it would feel good to shut her up. That Sinbad would thank me for it once I exposed her lies. We were in perfect agreement."
"I never told you to listen to your conscience. I'm torn on the concept, myself, and much prefer reasoning through classical ethics when I face a moral quandary. I mentioned the concept merely as an illustrative explanation of—"
"Fine, fine, maybe you didn't tell me to listen to it, but you told me it knows right from wrong. And my conscience was loud and clear. It knew what it wanted. It wanted me to be mad at her. To stop her." To hurt her? Yes, though he won't admit this to Firouz. He was very drunk and his memories are hazy, but he does remember this much. He remembers that gleeful voice telling him he was right, telling him to stop her witchery, to save his brother by any means necessary.
"Doubar, your conscience is just a manifestation of your own predilections and desires."
"It's what now?"
"Sorry. It's still just you. Nothing exists inside your head except what you yourself put there. Do you understand? Your conscience can't tell you anything you don't already know, though it can speak truths you may not have yet realized."
Doubar scowls. "Maybe for you. That's not how my head works. But what do I know? That dratted voice has gone silent. Hasn't spoken to me since Sinbad left."
"That's not how a conscience works, Doubar."
"It's how mine works," Doubar says with stubborn insistence. Leave it to him to have a busted conscience.
"You're a good man, Doubar. Fundamentally. I still believe that. When I tally up what I know of you, all our past experiences, the good still outweighs the bad. I refuse to believe the core of you has changed. But I'm still having trouble reconciling that with your attack on Maeve. And the way you've spoken of her since, spoken of Sinbad's child, hasn't exactly bolstered my faith, if I can be perfectly honest." Firouz looks at him with the same calm, nonjudgmental expression he's used all afternoon.
Doubar doesn't think he's changed, either. At least, he doesn't feel as if he has. He still feels like himself, just as he always has. But now suddenly he's Fortasa. He's the villain, and he doesn't know how that happened. "I would never hurt a child," he says, willing himself to believe it. Even the thought sickens him. But he did. Everyone says he did. Firouz's logic says he did. Sinbad's child. His own...niece.
"But you did. She may not survive, Doubar. You heard what Sinbad said. Bleeding is a bad sign. A midwife telling Maeve to stay down is a bad sign. It means the child is in distress and may be born too soon. Infants born too early do not live."
"I know that." And Sinbad needs a pregnant woman to challenge Scratch, not a new mother. If Maeve gives birth before her time all is lost. And he's the cause of this uncertainty. He did it. Not Scratch. Not Rumina. Just him. He inhales slowly. Exhales. The dock is quiet, the city quiet. Too quiet. Something is wrong here, but he lets it go. Sinbad is the one always so quick to discover problems and right them. Doubar has no stomach for it without his brother, and besides, Rongar warned them not to wander. He'll obey. He has no heart for rebellion these days. "What do I do now?" he asks. Firouz has never really been a leader, but he has no one else to turn to. Sinbad always knows what to do, but Sinbad isn't here. Doubar chased him away himself.
"To be honest, I don't know." Firouz rubs the back of his neck. He looks very uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and his eyes dart away from Doubar's. "Ordinarily I'd say a heartfelt apology and offer of atonement is in order, but the fact is that we may never see either Sinbad or Maeve again. Hiding from that truth is useless."
"You must have some idea," Doubar presses. Firouz is brilliant. A genius. Without something to hold onto, Doubar is lost.
"I suppose...it's never too late to learn something. You might think about learning to change some of those opinions that are fueling Sinbad's anger. You heard him very clearly today. If he keeps his soul, he'll have a daughter to raise. And he doesn't want her around you. I can't say I disagree with him, either. Some of the things you said about Maeve, Doubar, and about her child, disturbed even me, and they're not mine. I can't imagine how it made Sinbad feel, but I saw the way he jumped at you." He rolls and stretches his right shoulder. "I still feel it, too. Quite literally. I would not have been able to hold him back on my own."
Doubar knows. He's had to hold Sinbad back a time or two himself, though it's usually the other way around. He knows how difficult a task it is. "I'm the man my father raised me to be," he says firmly. His opinions are his father's, based solidly in tradition.
"And what about Dim-Dim? What would he say? I didn't know the old man well, but I don't think he would agree with much you've said lately."
And that, Doubar has to admit, is true. His old master would be extremely hurt by the way Doubar and Maeve are now at odds. But Dim-Dim is not his father. Doubar reveres him. They share history. But not blood.
"There's no shame in bearing daughters, Doubar. I'm wary of magic, but if Sinbad says Maeve is carrying a girl, I trust him. And I'm happy for him, because he's happy. Or he would be, were she safe. Why are you fighting it so hard?"
Doubar doesn't know. He honestly doesn't know. He only knows that he was so sure he would get a nephew out of this nightmare, a new little Sinbad to help raise. Now that dream is gone, and everything else with it. Sinbad. Their crew. His place in the world. Hell, even his busted conscience has deserted him. He came to rely on it so much these past moons as Sinbad pulled further and further away, refusing to confide in his brother as he always did before. Where he used to hear that inner voice so clearly, now there's only mocking silence.
That, and the growing knowledge that he ruined everything.
Rongar moves swiftly through the streets of his capital city. He was so sure when he left his homeland in disgrace that he would never see it again, and he made his peace with that long ago. He's unsettled now to find himself back, torn between bittersweet longing for something that can never be and simmering resentment for all he's lost, a resentment he thought he had long since mastered and tamed. But it rears its head again now, sharp and bitter in his blood as he treads streets his feet know so well, disturbed by the changes before his eyes. It was his own decision to return, and he places no blame anywhere else. Nobody forced him to do this. Still he feels a creeping, shuddering sense of unease almost strong enough to change his mind, turn his feet back toward the docks and the Nomad. Sinbad never came within leagues of here, so there was never any danger from Rongar's kept secrets, never any worry that the past he locked so firmly behind him could cause harm to his newfound clan. Now he worries, as he did not until he saw the so-familiar silhouette of his family palace against the arching sky once more. He should have prepared his fellows better. Told them more, if not all. Warned them, at least. They're in as much danger as he, and will be damned by association if he's caught.
Which means, Rongar tells himself firmly as he and Talia stride through the streets, that he can't get caught. It's just not an option. And it shouldn't be a problem, so long as he keeps a low profile. He and Talia are just a couple of travelers seeking Zorah's wisdom, as so many have done before them. He's covered from head to toe in a heavy woolen cloak, his face well concealed under a deep hood. No one can see him. Still his palms sweat in the heavy, humid air. He wishes the sky would open already. The tension of the threatening rain echoes the tension inside him.
At least he only has one person by his side as he makes this trek, one person to watch over. Doubar was a stunned, useless mess after their encounter with Sinbad and Firouz opted to remain behind with him, which lightens Rongar's burden considerably. Doubar's behavior can no longer be relied upon, his anxiety and grief over his brother turning him dangerously unstable, so its best that he remains behind and watched over by a more grounded, rational friend. Talia may be untrustworthy in general, but Rongar has now fought and sailed with her long enough that he knows her urges, her inclinations. If they're cornered she'll turn on him to save her own skin, he has no illusions about that. But she knows better than Firouz when to keep her mouth shut, and she's cannier than Doubar even when the first mate is at his best. All in all, Rongar would rather have her at his side than the others right now, given the situation.
Not that there should be a situation. He's well-concealed under his cloak, and as soon as Zorah either tells him what she can or refuses, they can all be on their way again. He has no idea what sort of reception he'll get from his sister, but that was always going to be the case. She's the one with the gift for prophecy, not him. He aches for all he's lost, but he firmly pushes these old worries down. They're not his concern right now. All he wants is to find Dermott. He can't help Sinbad and Maeve any longer as they quest to save his soul, but he can do this, and he will. Sinbad would do anything for him, after all. His captain would help him depose Ali Rashid in an instant, he knows he would. This is not the time to even contemplate the possibility, but Sinbad and the rest of his crew would do it. There's no question.
There is, however, the question of what Zorah will do when she sees him again. Rongar only agreed to leave in the first place to keep her safe, but she doesn't know this. At the time she was too blinded by love for Ali Rashid to see his deceptions—a cruel irony for a woman gifted with foresight, but no one in the world is immune from deceit. Years have passed, and Rongar has no way of knowing how his sister feels now. She may still love Ali Rashid, may still place her loyalty with the man who usurped her brother. Even so, Rongar is willing to risk this visit. All he wants is a clue to Dermott's whereabouts. It's nothing to do with politics, nothing to do with Bollnah at all. He's betting his life on his sister's willingness to help him aid a friend in need, counting on their long past and natural sibling connection to win out, since he poses no threat to Ali Rashid today. But this is a wager, not an assurance, and he knows it. He's not supposed to be here, and if Ali Rashid finds out he'll take more than just his tongue this time. To Rongar, the risk is worth it. Talia is right to doubt prophecy—most people claiming to see beyond time are charlatans, so turning to them for aid would be useless. Zorah is not the only person in the world with a true gift, but she's the only one Rongar knows. The only one whose gift he trusts. So the vital clue they need to begin this quest must come from her, if it comes at all. She can help them, he knows she can. He just doesn't know whether she will.
As they walk swiftly, Talia a steady, welcome presence beside him, Rongar studies each passing face with caution from beneath his deep hood. Ali Rashid is a profoundly paranoid man, desperate to keep hold of the power he knows he has no right to, and his spies are everywhere in the city. Rongar discovered that too late last time. He won't be so foolish again. He judges the eyes of the people they pass, observing their interest in the pair of strangers in their midst. No one has recognized him yet, he's certain. And he wants to keep it that way.
Rongar liked to believe even before he lost his throne that he had better observational skills than most. After, he had to hone those skills in order to survive. They tell him now, as he pushes closer to the district where magicians and sorcerers ply their trade, that all is not well in his homeland. There's little commerce, little bustle. Buildings lack repair and whitewash. No chickens crowd his feet, and the few children tucked into doorways and alleys are too skinny, their eyes sunken and dull. It's said that Ali Rashid bleeds kingdoms of their wealth and prosperity once he gains control. Rongar sees it now before him. His people are suffering, as he feared they would, but there's nothing he can do for them now. Not without Sinbad, only Talia at his side. She's become a friend, but she's a pirate, not a revolutionary.
"Welcome to Bollnah, weary travelers."
Rongar eyes the approaching woman warily. He does not recognize her, but he can tell instantly from the lustre of her soft skin, the shine of her perfectly oiled curls, that she's used to a very pampered life. She wears sheer silken şalvar, the material only growing opaque enough to obscure her skin where it covers the juncture of her legs. Her top barely contains the breasts threatening to spill over every time she breathes and leaves nothing from her navel to her nose to the imagination. The expensive green silk is fringed with tiny gold beads that glitter even in the overcast light of a sky threatening rain. The smile that curls her pretty mouth tells Rongar swiftly not to trust her. Not that he planned to—the way she slyly attempts to peer under his hood sets off all his internal alarms, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck rising stiffly in warning.
The golden sandals on her feet are ornamental, not functional, meant to show off the graceful lines of her ankles and toes. Rongar assumed on first glance that she must belong in a wealthy man's harem, either a wife or a kept concubine. But no man able to keep his women so well would allow one to wander the city on foot, or alone. A high-priced courtesan, then? A possibility, but if so her qawad ought likewise not to let his valuable merchandise roam. She's dressed far too finely to be a common streetwalker, and not practically enough to be a merchant or farmer, or even a sorceress. Maeve's clothing attracts male attention, but she would never sacrifice function for sensuality to this extreme. Rumina might, Rongar supposes, but then, he's never seen their enemy down in the dirt of a common marketplace as this woman is.
"Sorry, sweetheart, this one's taken," Talia says firmly, and she thrusts her arm through Rongar's. He grins under his hood. He can't help it. He likes the loudmouthed little pirate. She has a good heart, even if her moral compass is a bit out of alignment. He allows her to take the lead, more than willing to let her chase off this interruption. The girl may or may not be a spy for Ali Rashid, but he has no time for her either way. Best to let Talia scare her away.
"I merely wish to welcome strangers to our land," the girl says. The sheer green she wears compliments her olive skin perfectly, the warm gold dangling from her ears and wrapped around her throat burnished to a high sheen. She's too heavily painted for Rongar to know whether she's a natural beauty under all the cosmetics and silk, but she's a vision like this and she knows it. Her eyebrows lift in an expression of innocence far too exaggerated to be sincere. "We see so few travelers these days."
The comment hangs in the air, dangling like the bait it is. She wants them to ask her why, wants to lure them into conversation she can then lead where she chooses. Rongar knows the trap well and wouldn't fall for it even if he had a tongue with which to speak. Talia, thank the gods, is no fool either. "Shut it, sister," she says, far more blunt than he would have been, but it gets the job done. "I know a hooker when I see one. Normally I'd be happy to go get a drink and let you two play this game, but we don't have time today."
Rongar has nothing against women who sell pleasure—though he often does against the men who control them—but as Talia says, they have no time, and he's at least half convinced that this one is a spy anyway. Too much about her makes no sense.
"Why don't you let the gentleman speak for himself?" the woman says, bristling at Talia's tone. She doesn't actually deny the accusation, however.
"The gentleman," Talia says, her arm firm in his, "is too much of a gentleman to tell a girl to scram, even when he's not interested. That's one very good reason he keeps me around. Also I'm his interpreter. He doesn't speak the language." She grins, and Rongar has no doubt she's having fun.
She's also exceedingly clever. He'll have to remember to let her cheat him sometime in thanks for this ruse.
The woman tries again to peer under Rongar's hood but he's too well concealed for her to get a look. He's a large man completely cloaked in wool, nothing more. A faint line of frustration appears between her delicate brows, but she smooths it away almost instantly. "I'm curious. I meant it when I said we see few visitors in Bollnah. Are you come in hopes of trade? Our merchants have little to barter, and less money to buy. Most of the surrounding lands know this by now."
Yes, Rongar can see the economic change in his homeland, which was once a small but bustling trading port known for their skillful weavers and the pomegranate orchards that stretch into the lowlands, away from the Mountains of Qaff. Now many merchant doors are closed, stalls abandoned and silent. But the girl before him is materially unaffected by the downturn of his homeland, which makes him suspect she belongs either to Ali Rashid or to one of his close allies. She gleams richly, a polished gem set against the crumbling backdrop of Rongar's home.
"We came to visit a famed soothsayer, the woman Zorah," Talia says. "We've heard many tales of her gift, and I for one want to see it for myself."
The stranger eyes them sharply, a hint of suspicion entering her dark gaze. "You seek Zorah?"
"That's what I said." Talia shifts with impatience beside Rongar.
"The only people who seek Zorah are those intent on tempting fate," the girl says flatly, and the suspicion in her eyes deepens. "Or heroes who haven't yet realized the futility of heroics."
"Well, I'm no hero, and I don't believe in fate," Talia says, both of which are true. "This guy," she squeezes Rongar's arm, "might answer differently if he could, but it doesn't really matter. We're here to see Zorah. In fact—I'll tell you what. Neither of us wants what you're peddling, but we'll take a guide. A dinar to lead us to the soothsayer." She holds up a coin Rongar knows for a fact is counterfeit. "Take it or leave us alone."
A woman dressed in gold and scraps of sheer silk doesn't need their coin; it's a deliberate insult, and Rongar lets it stand. Talia is being unkind, but he really only wants the woman to go away. Whatever her game is, they don't have time for it and he can't risk discovery. He does feel a burst of amusement at her furious scowl, though. She's lucky she's only facing Talia and him, not Maeve and Sinbad. Maeve would do far worse to any prostitute who approached Sinbad and didn't quickly retreat, he knows she would. And Rongar would happily pay good money to watch his hot-tempered crewmate eviscerate a girl who won't take no for an answer.
"Come on now, dollface, we don't have all day. Do you have any idea who I am? I'm Talia, the Black Rose of Oman, the queenly terror of the seven seas. Ringing any bells yet? I'm not afraid of any mystic's babble, and I don't have time to waste playing games with hookers in the street. Take us to Zorah or step aside."
The woman's scowl deepens. Rongar wonders just what it is she wants. A regular prostitute would be happy to guide them somewhere for a fee, and a spy for Ali Rashid would want to take news of an infamous pirate back to her master immediately before someone else does. He's curious, but mostly he wants to get moving again. He needs to reach Zorah before anything worse than this delay happens.
"Fine," the woman says finally. She snatches the coin from Talia's hand, which surprises Rongar somewhat. "You want Zorah? I'll take you to Zorah. But you'll regret it. All who come seeking her do."
Rongar feels a chill at her words, though he's sure she hasn't seen him. Zorah always tells the truth when people seek her aid. She doesn't coat their futures in honey in hopes of gaining more coin. He hopes that's what this woman means by her warning.
"Yeah, yeah. Save your breath, I've heard it all before." Talia releases Rongar's arm as they finally begin to move again, following their new guide down the street. He'd rather leave her behind, but Talia's not entirely wrong to employ a guide. Zorah used to work out of the palace. Rongar knows the district where magicians ply their trade, but he doesn't know precisely where his sister may now be. "You think this is my first brush with deadly prophecy?" Talia snorts. "You oughta hear what some madman oracle said when we were prisoners in an abandoned salt mine outside Marrakesh. Now that was some raving nonsense to curdle the blood!"
Idly, Rongar wonders how much of this statement is actually true. There's usually a kernel of truth hidden somewhere in Talia's stories, but sometimes it's hard to find. It's possible she was held prisoner in a salt mine at some point. It's also possible she just knows Marrakesh is a hub of the salt trade.
"Zorah speaks no nonsense," the woman says as they walk. "You should know that, if you've come so far to hear her."
Rongar does know. Many oracles speak in gibberish, but not Zorah. She says what she sees as plainly as she can. That's what seekers have always both valued and feared. That's what Ali Rashid exploited—that, and a heart that trusts too easily despite her gift of foresight.
"I am Shirez," their guide says, glancing again at Rongar.
"I don't see how it matters," Talia answers, gaining another scowl from their guide.
Shirez is very like Rumina in a way, Rongar thinks as they walk. Her dark curls gleam richly in the overcast light, soft and luxuriant. She's vain, vain enough to paint and adorn herself to exploit whatever natural beauty she may have, utilizing her body as a tool and a weapon. She slinks, rolling her hips as she walks, each movement purposefully calculated to draw male attention. She knows what she's doing, and she's good at it. But instead of her, Rongar watches Talia. If their guide's seductive demeanor triggers envy in her, she doesn't show it. Shirez is prettier than Talia, and better at these feminine arts, but Talia doesn't care. This sets the piratess apart from Maeve, who is more beautiful by far than Shirez but not very good at playing this role. And the prickly redhead very much would care, Rongar knows, while Talia doesn't. Since he wants to avoid any scenes, he's glad he has the pirate with him today and not the Celt. Maeve is his sister and he'd do anything for her, but she's far too good at causing scenes and Shirez's vain prancing would not go over well.
"You have not named your foreign companion," Shirez says, pushing though she must know this choice is not wise. "That seems unconscionably rude, even if he doesn't speak the language."
"We'll be out of your life in a few minutes, so again, it doesn't matter."
"Why does he not put down his hood? Is he horribly scarred or disfigured?"
"He's the second-handsomest man I've ever met, and I've met more in my travels than even a streetwalker could fathom. But he hates being gawked at, so lay off."
Rongar is going to have to figure out something incredibly nice to do for Talia after this. She doesn't know what he's hiding from, but she's canny and quick. She knows he's hiding. He hasn't shown his face or tried to communicate with anyone. Doubar wouldn't have noticed, and maybe not Firouz, either. But Talia has, and at least in public she's not questioning it. When they get back to the docks he knows she'll rightfully demand some answers, but for now she's helping him and that's all he could ask of any ally.
"You weren't kidding when you said your town wasn't doing so hot," Talia mutters as they pass yet another house that has been abandoned and scavenged. Rongar lost count of how many he's seen. A guilty pang hits his heart. The people with enough money to leave Bollnah and start over somewhere else are clearly doing so. The ones left are either in Ali Rashid's employ or cannot afford to flee. He knew this would happen, knew it from the reports of what the man has done to other kingdoms. But no one would listen to him before, and now it's too late.
"I said nothing against my home," Shirez says sharply. "All fortunes fluctuate." This is true, and also the correct diplomatic answer for someone under the thumb of a despot. Even spies fear being spied upon. Maybe especially spies.
"Looks like the fortunes here have been down for a while." Talia wrinkles her nose at the piles of uncollected refuse filling the alleyways, a couple of dirty children picking through one heap. "But not yours. I guess the oldest profession still pays even in bad times, huh?"
Shirez glares, her dark eyes hot as they turn a corner. "What would a pirate know about honest work?"
"Plenty. Enough to know there's always a way around it." Talia grins, utterly unrepentant for her occupation, as she always is. She takes pride in piracy, and doesn't care what other people think. Rongar taps her shoulder gently and shakes his head. She rolls her eyes. "Fine, fine. That one's honest." She jerks her thumb at him. "Disgustingly so. He's constantly trying to convince me to go straight, but it will never stick. He keeps trying, misplaced hero that he is."
"Hero?" Shirez stares hard at Rongar. "You're exaggerating, of course. Good men are hard to find in this world, but they're not all heroes, no matter how rare."
"This one is," Talia says firmly, and Rongar feels a rush of warmth for her, how much it sounds like she actually believes this. "'Good' is a useless word, if you ask me. Too subjective, and varies with circumstance. The only people I know who fit all descriptions of 'good' are Sinbad the sailor and his crew. It's kind of annoying, actually. And dull, I've discovered. But crooked?" She grins. "Crooked's far more interesting, and far easier to understand."
"Sinbad?" Shirez stops walking, and she peers at Rongar's hooded figure once more. "You say you know Sinbad? The man they call master of the seven seas? I've heard many tales of his adventures. He is a true hero, as you say." Her eyes gleam with interest.
"That's the one. We don't always see eye to eye, but I've teamed up with him a time or two. And you want tales? I could tell you tales, if I had the time."
Rongar bets she could—tales Sinbad himself likely wouldn't recognize if he heard them the way Talia tells. He's too wary to be amused anymore, however. Shirez's eyes glimmer, keen and bright. They have her attention. She could just be intrigued by the tales she's heard of Sinbad's adventures...but maybe not. She's not difficult to read, but Rongar's having trouble piecing together her motivations and therefore how much threat she might be. Nothing about her makes sense, and that makes her dangerous. He wants to tell Talia to be cautious, but he has no way of doing so without Shirez noticing.
"He is said to be a mighty hero," the woman says, and Rongar can hear how carefully she chooses her words. "Strong and skillful with a blade, but also clever. He surrounds himself with allies to create an unbeatable force. A giant. A genius. A warrior. A sorceress. Even a fighting hawk, the stories say. I did not know birds could be trained to fight. To hunt, of course, and carry messages. But not to fight."
They can't. Not to Rongar's knowledge, and he learned to hunt with hawks at a young age. The way Dermott defends Maeve was one of his first clues that Dermott was no true bird.
"Is the hawk...important to Sinbad?" Shirez presses. "The others are not unusual companions for a hero. But in the stories Sinbad isn't the sentimental type, the type to keep a pet." The tiny gold ornaments fringing her clothing chime like soft little bells when she moves. The sound is intentional, and would be a rhythmic counterpoint to a musician were she dancing. But she's not displaying her charms in the middle of a rich man's palace. She's standing on a dirty stoop in a small, silent court off the main street, her golden sandals unaccustomed to the dust they wear. She's so wildly out of place, and Rongar's gut screams warnings at him but he doesn't yet have enough pieces to understand. She doesn't know who he is, so though she may be Ali Rashid's spy, she can't give him away. But her interest in Sinbad and his crew is not normal. Anyone might brighten at the mention of a famous hero, but her questions about Dermott, of all things, tell Rongar to be cautious.
"The bird?" Talia snorts. "You want to hear about the bird? Most girls want to know about Sinbad, and whether he really does that thing with his tongue he's so infamous with the ladyfolk for. He does, by the way. You're welcome. But he's keeping exclusively to one woman at the moment, so I wouldn't go having any fantasies about it."
"What thing—no, never mind." Shirez shakes her head swiftly. "I was asking about the bird. My...father works in the prince's mews, so of course I'm naturally curious." She smiles sweetly. "That's all. I only wondered if the bird was a familiar, perhaps, or magically bound to him in some way?"
"To him?" Talia barks a short, derisive laugh. "I don't know anything about magic, but the hawk doesn't belong to Sinbad, it belongs to his sorceress, and she's not friendly. Neither am I if someone tries to double-cross or trick me, so I'd be very careful if I were you. You're asking the wrong questions." She glances around them warily. "Are we there? Where's Zorah?"
They stand in a small, close court surrounded by several doors, a stone staircase leading upward. It would be the perfect place for a neat little ambush, which Rongar knew the moment Shirez's steps slowed. But as far as he knows, she has no reason to trap them. She doesn't know who he is, and if she suspects, she's asking the wrong questions to ferret it out. No, something else is going on here, and whatever it is, Rongar wants no part of it.
"Zorah is upstairs," Shirez says, ignoring Talia's poorly-veiled threat. "I will go speak to her first."
"No way, sister." Talia rests her hand lightly on the hilt of her sword. Below his cloak, Rongar does the same. Shirez poses no physical threat to either of them, but she could have a mob waiting behind any of the closed doors surrounding them, or up those stairs. He can feel the danger in the air, thick as the humid sky. He just doesn't know why. "I paid you to take us to Zorah." Talia wraps her free hand around Shirez's bare upper arm firmly. "I always get what I pay for."
Dark eyes glare balefully at the pirate. "Doubt me all you like. But I warned you."
"Of course you did. Now move it."
"You won't like what you find," Shirez vows, but she starts up the stairs without further argument.
Rongar already doesn't like anything he's found on this journey, and if not for his chosen quest to find Dermott, he'd turn around and leave. But he made this choice, and he's determined to see it through. Shirez's eyes are sullen but her feet don't falter, which keeps him moving forward. If she refused to climb the stairs with them, there's no way in hell he'd still be climbing.
At the top, they turn a corner and pass through an open doorway. The room beyond is painted with light, coated with color from a stained glass window and shimmering curtains of colored glass beads. Even on a dark, overcast day, the room is filled with light and color. But the beauty is lost on Rongar. His eyes settle on a figure seated at a low, round table inlaid with an intricate mosaic of polished wood and tile. She's heavily garbed and veiled in bright saffron and rust-red; he can only see her eyes, but that's enough. He'd know those eyes anywhere.
Zorah.
This is his sister. Slightly older than he, but that made no difference. He was her guardian all their lives, until she made a choice he could not protect her from. She fell in love with Ali Rashid, refused to see his treachery for what it was, and sided with him against her brother, giving Ali Rashid the aid of her foresight and the ability to take over. Rongar would have fought until his death, fought with everything in him, but Ali Rashid threatened her life and this was the one risk Rongar could not chance. He swore an oath to their parents always to protect her, and this vow is what made him bow to his usurper, slink from his kingdom in defeat. To safeguard the sister who betrayed him.
Now he stands before her again, as he swore to Ali Rashid he never would.
She knows him. She sees nothing but his frame swathed in heavy wool, but she knows him. He can tell by the subtle tremor that runs along her body as she climbs slowly to her feet, the instant pain in her tired eyes as she stares at him. She's silent as she stands, this woman who betrayed him for love of a merchant prince she knew would never love her back. Will she do so again? It's a possibility. Rongar has always known it was a possibility.
"Is this her?" Talia demands, pushing firmly into the room, still holding Shirez by the arm. Her sharp voice abruptly breaks the silent spell hanging thick in the room, the air bitter with tension and regret.
Rongar inclines his head once, a slow dip of his chin, without removing his eyes from his sister.
"Good." Talia releases the girl. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Run along, now. Since you seem to like stories so much, you can tell all your friends that you were kidnapped by the Black Rose but lived to tell the tale. You don't even have to tell them you were only a prisoner for the length of a single staircase. How's that for good fortune?"
"I told you that you would regret asking for Zorah." Shirez snatches her arm from Talia's loosened grip. Her black eyes snap dangerously. "You will." She turns and disappears swiftly down the steps.
"Good riddance," Talia mutters. "Too damn dramatic. Maybe I should have just let her fuck you. It might have saved time."
"It was not wise to involve the soft one," Zorah says. Her voice is quiet, and in it Rongar hears an ocean of regret. She sounds tired, weary to the soul. "I knew you were coming, brother. Knew you needed my aid. I didn't know to warn about the girl. She belongs to Ali Rashid. She gets a thrill from seducing sailors behind his back, but she is not disloyal enough to keep mention of you to herself."
"Say what now?" Talia demands. "Brother? Oh, come on. Not again."
Rongar doesn't answer. Talia deserves a full explanation and possibly an apology as well, but not right now. He tips his head gently to the side, watching his sister from beneath his hood as he waits to see what she will do. She could make any number of choices, including another betrayal. For all he knows she could have forewarned Ali Rashid of his appearance. The man could be nearby, ready to exact his revenge. But Rongar had to come, despite the risk. His crew, his chosen family, is falling apart, and he has to try to fix it.
"Aye," Zorah says, a slow nod of her head as she acknowledges this truth and all it encompasses. Their blood. Their past. Her treachery. "Brother." The word gives Rongar hope. She refused to call him this the last time they spoke. He'd go to her if he could, hug her tightly as he used to do when they were small. But his feet are rooted to the floor, his arms leaden at his sides. He can't even lift them to lower his hood. His chest aches and his belly churns with unease as he stands before her. Love of Maeve, his new sworn sister, has brought him to seek aid from the blood sister who helped destroy his world. He has no idea what's happened to her in the long years since he saw her last, or how she feels about him now. But he has faith in the bond he believes they still share despite everything. He's risking his life on it.
Zorah swallows hard. Her eyes glimmer in the shimmering rainbow light of the room. Rongar has never liked veils, or the kingdoms where they are required. They conceal too much of the face, and therefore the soul. He can never quite trust anyone hiding so thoroughly. But in this moment he needs nothing more than his sister's eyes. Regret sits heavy on her shoulders, in her gaze. "Rongar. I was wrong."
That's all he needs to hear. He's not interested in showers of apologies, and he doesn't want her tears. Those three words are enough. He knows why she did what she did, and he's grateful now to know she's learned better. A solemn heaviness he's worn for too long suddenly loosens. It doesn't fall away like a broken manacle, but his soul feels lighter, this burden easier to bear. Nothing can undo what's been done. But this acknowledgment helps.
"Now wait just a damn minute," Talia says. She steps between brother and sister, forcing Rongar to look at her. "You," she says, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I thought you were one of the good ones. Honest. But you've been keeping secrets just like the hothead."
Yes, he has. Maybe even worse. They know Maeve's enemy, if not her backstory. Everyone knows to beware Rumina. But Ali Rashid is dangerous, too, and Rongar never warned anyone. It was never necessary, but suddenly they're here, in the thick of his past, and he knows he should have prepared his friends better. He takes Talia's hand in both of his and squeezes gently, willing her to accept his apology. He'll tell her everything. He'll write it down clearly so there are no misunderstandings. But not until they're safely back aboard the Nomad.
"No, those manners won't work this time, buddy. I want some answers. Is that really your sister?"
He nods.
"Is she really a soothsayer?"
He nods again.
"Huh. I guess that explains why we had to sail so far to reach this particular mystic," she grumbles. "Does Sinbad know about all this?"
He shakes his head. No one knows. He said nothing when he joined the Nomad crew because they were strangers, and he didn't know how long he would stay on. Most contract men remain only until the next port, or the one after that. And especially after Mustafa's death, Rongar had no idea whether he could trust the men around him. He knew immediately upon meeting Maeve that she had secrets, too, and he felt an instant kinship with the angry Celt because of it. By the time he knew that Sinbad and the others could be trusted, he also knew that his secrets no longer mattered. No one ever pried. On Sinbad's ship, it didn't matter what he was—deposed prince or lowly mercenary, it made no difference. The crew values him for his talents, his friendship and loyalty. He felt no need to open the painful doors to his past, because no one required it of him.
Talia heaves an irritated sigh. "Guess now's not the time to tell him. But you should have warned me. And what's this about that hooker? I knew there was something fishy about her."
Zorah's explanation of Shirez makes perfect sense to Rongar. Ali Rashid is a cruel man; Rongar doesn't doubt that his women dislike him. A wife or concubine eager to take up with sailors—to sully herself, in Rashid's eyes—would be a deep insult to him, should he learn of it. The only thing that surprises him is that Shirez is brave enough to actually dare. She's risking her pampered lifestyle, and possibly her life if she falls pregnant with a child she can't pass off as her master's. Still, if he treats her badly enough, she may feel dishonoring him is worth the risk.
"Sinbad? The sailor, Sinbad?" Zorah's body jerks. "You sail with the hero?"
"Yes, yes, we've been over that already today." Talia crosses her arms over her chest, shifting her weight onto one hip, her body language screaming impatience. "I don't want to do it again."
"I...did not foresee that." Zorah looks at the window, then swiftly back at Rongar. "I knew you were near. Knew you would come to me. But I didn't know your ties to the sailor. I'm sorry, brother. Please. Ask your question swiftly so you may be gone swiftly. You risk your life."
He knows. Ali Rashid only let him live because Rongar is no threat while Zorah lives under his thumb. But the man will not tolerate his return, not for any reason. Even Sinbad's name offers no protection, especially since their captain isn't here. Rongar swiftly draws a quill from his waistband—a heavy primary from Dermott's wing that Maeve has used for writing. The tip has been tempered and cut, stained black with ink. The striped brown barbs gleam softly in the overcast light. All Rongar wants is to find Dermott. Firouz is convinced the bird went feral, but Dermott isn't actually a bird and Rongar doubts it's possible for a man to go feral. His worry is that something has happened to the hawk. He never left Maeve's side for more than a day—never. But it's been moons since Rongar last saw him. He knew better than to ask, as Maeve needs no one adding to her pain right now. But he's going to help if he can. He sets the quill gently on the table and backs away again.
"This is an odd talisman. You know my gift works best with something shed from the person you seek, yes? A lock of hair, a stain of blood?"
He nods; he knows. She'll understand when she touches it.
"Second best is something close to the body or close to the heart. The blanket he sleeps in. The doll from childhood she keeps into old age. A quill is neither. They are used up and discarded too swiftly to gain resonance."
Rongar holds back a sharp breath of annoyance. He knows these things; he grew up with Zorah after all. He plucks the quill from the table and pushes it into her hand.
"Very well, brother. You always did have odd ways, and usually good reasons for them." Zorah presses the feather between her palms and closes her eyes.
"Doesn't she need a potion to drink or an incantation to say or something?" Talia's whisper is far too loud to really be private, but she's trying. She's not good at being quiet. Rongar shakes his head. Zorah has never needed any outside aid to boost her gift. She sees what she sees, and that's it.
His sister sucks in a deep, startled breath. "There is profound pain here." Her brows draw together as she struggles against the onslaught of whatever she sees and feels, this gift she has that Rongar does not possess. It's both a blessing and a curse, she's told him many times, for herself as well as those who seek her aid. "So very deep, this pain." Her words gasp from her in a heated rush. "Layers and layers of it. Duty. Guilt. Loss upon loss. Strata of sorcery, twisted and deformed. Some very old. Some newer. Some good. Most not." A tremor passes through her.
"None of this is news," Talia says. "How come you're not speaking in riddles?"
Zorah's eyes do not open but she answers Talia calmly. "Because I am no charlatan attempting to hide deception. There is too much in this talisman to unravel at once, brother. Quickly. Time grows short. Which do you seek? The cursed man who shed the feather, or the woman who took it up? Neither future appears bright."
"The man," Talia says swiftly, her eyebrows rising in grudging respect for Zorah's skill. "We already know where the hothead is."
"Hothead? The description fits both of these."
"Of course it does," Talia mutters. "The hawk—the man—whatever he is. The other one's off on a hopeless mission, it's all very tragically heroic, and I'm kind of pissed off that I got stuck with her whiny brother-in-law in the meanwhile."
Zorah opens her eyes, her gaze full of questions, but Rongar has no time to answer them. He feels the urgency as much as she does—he needs to leave. Being here is not safe, even if no one knows. He'd tell her everything she wants to know if he could: his adventures, his new kin. He knows she wonders at him showing up with a woman at his side, but if she's worried she needn't. He can handle himself, he knows perfectly well who and what Talia is, and they don't have that sort of relationship anyway. He suspects the Black Rose would willingly take him to bed if he offered, but it wouldn't mean anything and he's far too stressed out to want an empty fling right now.
"I need to caution you, brother—caution you both. Few people come away from here satisfied. Many curse me."
He knows. His sister has been plying her trade since she was a very young woman, though she never had to live by it before Ali Rashid took their home.
"It's fine," Talia says, glancing at Rongar, then back to Zorah. She can feel the tension as much as he can. She knows they need to hurry. "We're not asking about our own futures, and I doubt your brother would curse you anyway."
Never. Were he that type of man, he'd have cursed her years ago for her betrayal. Not for a prophecy she cannot control.
"Then know that the feathered man was cursed by a dark heart years ago." Zorah bows her head over the quill pressed between her palms. "A curse fueled by bitterness and spite. As time passes it grows deeper, as blackberry canes strangle a tree, the man slowly disappearing, the bird gaining ground. His bright mirror seeks to undo the magic, but she'll find no remedy without blood. Only the dark heart's death can set him free."
Rumina's death; Rongar is sure of it now. That's why Maeve is here, so far from her homeland and so dedicated to destroying Rumina. Her choice to keep her quest secret doesn't rankle him, not when he has so many secrets of his own. He begrudges her nothing. Sometimes burdens are too overwhelming to share, even after bridges of trust have been built. He knows better than anyone.
"Hey, so, if you can really see the future, can you tell me whether Maeve manages to free Sinbad's soul from Scratch?" Talia asks. "I have bets riding both ways, of course, but I'd really like to be sure."
Rongar wants to roll his eyes but he's honestly not surprised that she asked. He's curious, too, though he also dreads the answer. Maeve was not well when she left the Nomad, and Sinbad's account of her current condition wasn't encouraging.
"That is divination," Zorah says, "which is not my gift. I see what I see; I do not get a choice, and the future of the bright woman is clouded and unclear. I sense great turmoil—much anger and heartache, and more grief than I wish anyone to ever know. The ending of a line, like the cutting of a thread. But I cannot answer your question. I cannot tell you what will be, or how. It may be that a crucial choice has not yet been made." Zorah's eyes find her brother's. "You must go now. Swiftly. You've stayed too long already."
Rongar shakes his head firmly and touches the tip of the feather held between her hands. He needs to find Dermott. A clue. Anything. Maeve is his chosen sister, which means her quest is his now, too. And Dermott has been a steady ally, as well as he can in his current form. He doesn't deserve to remain cursed.
"He's near," Zorah says, and her voice falters. "Very near. Too near. I do not like what that means. There's more you should know. Brother—" Her words stop short and her head tilts toward the window.
Rongar hears them as her voice fades. His head jerks up an instant before Talia's. Footsteps—heavy, booted footsteps. Soldiers or guards, too many of them, marching in formation.
"Traitor!" Talia shoves Zorah aside, lurching for the window.
"No." The quill drops from Zorah's hands, and she staggers. "No. Not this time. Not on purpose."
"It's too far to jump!" Talia curses as she hovers near the window. Rongar reaches for her. The guards are closing in swiftly and he doesn't want her to jump if she doubts her landing. She's experienced enough to know what her body can do, but reckless enough to ignore her own wisdom when cornered. And cornered they certainly are. He watches his sister with reproach. He'd far rather she betrayed him at the beginning instead of waiting so long.
"I didn't do this," Zorah insists, her bright eyes clouded with pain. "Rongar, you must believe me. I knew you would come, and I said nothing to anyone. But I didn't know you sailed with Sinbad, and I did not foresee the interference of the soft one."
Talia ignores her. "What is it with you people and double-crossing your brothers?" she demands. "At least the mess with Doubar was no plot. He didn't plan to damn Sinbad to hell. What the fuck is going on here?"
Too much to explain right now. Rongar silently begs Talia's forgiveness as he grabs the blanket from his sister's bed, intent on lowering her from the window. The guards are after him, they have to be. Shirez must have sounded the alarm, though he's positive she never saw his face. There's no other explanation if Zorah didn't betray him, and looking in her eyes, he can't doubt her. Not this time. And Talia doesn't deserve to be caught up in his trouble. He won't allow her to become collateral damage to his family strife.
But the guards have already entered the court by the time he reaches the window, and he can hear more climbing the stairs. There's no other exit and too many enemies, a situation he's been in many times before, mostly with poor results. Often he and the rest of the crew are taken prisoner only for Sinbad to rescue them later, but Sinbad is gone. He grips the hilt of his sword below his cloak. He'll fight until his last breath, but he knows just looking at the number of guards below that he and Talia won't win. They're used to being outnumbered, but not by this much.
"What the hell did you do to deserve a homecoming like this?" Talia glares at him. She's furious, and she has every right to be. This was supposed to be an easy trip, a way to keep occupied until Samhain and maybe help Maeve in the meantime. Now it's turned into a trap.
The wooden door slams open.
"Hello, dearest. Did you miss me?" Rumina smiles sweetly.
