A/N: If you need a refresher on the fairy tale of Étaín and Midir, it's in chapter 27. Trust me, I wouldn't bring it up again if it wasn't going to be important later. :)
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Autumn has arrived, firmly and finally, at Breakwater. To Sinbad, it's a brand new experience. Autumn is not a concept in the lands he frequents, and while he's sailed most of the known world, he's never experienced a shift in seasons so swift, so drastic, and so colorful. The dry weather holds, which Niall says is not normal, though the nights are uncomfortably cold for everyone now, not just Maeve, and even the deep, aching blue of the midday sky holds a crispness Sinbad is completely unfamiliar with. With the cold comes color, blazes of fiery red and flaming yellow as the foliage puts up a last valiant fight against the coming darkness. It's not natural, at least not to Sinbad, and he finds it a little creepy that the woodlands seem to be on fire.
The rituals of the season are also out of order to him. Where he's from, October rains signal the sowing of fields. Here, they signal harvest. Sinbad has never lived among people who must store their crops carefully against a long season of barren dark and bitter cold, and the care with which they do so is a revelation. Breakwater is not self-sufficient, but they still have crops to harvest and animals to butcher. The amount of fresh milk and eggs from their animals and greens from their garden drops sharply as the days cool, and they begin to import magically from suppliers in southern Gaul. Ordinarily they do without during the winter, as most northern-dwelling humans do, but Keely says Maeve needs the fresh food too badly and won't risk putting her on a winter diet yet.
For her part, Maeve is famished most of the time, which calms some of Keely's worry and makes Sinbad deliriously happy. Keely says she should have been starving like this moons ago. Sinbad suspects that all the stress and the dark magic of Rumina's time-spell interfered with his sorceress's ability to know what her body needed, signals that are only now returning in a way she can interpret them. Keely still insists that bitter greens and dark meat make up the bulk of Maeve's diet, but his sorceress gets her way when she wants sweet ripe fruit or hot bread spread thick with melting butter. Fin loves fruit, Maeve insists, and his daughter seems to have inherited the northern love of butter, too. It's inexplicable to him, but useful, as every child in the house will happily undertake any task when bribed with it. Some of Keely's worry ebbs with each passing day Maeve remains pregnant and hungry, but Sinbad notes that she still refuses to call Finleigh by her name. Whether that's pure stubbornness or a result of deeper fears, he's afraid to ask. Worry about Maeve and his daughter never leaves him, but as Maeve's belly grows rounder and rounder with no further emergencies he's beginning to think they may make it to Samhain in one piece after all.
He helps with the harvest and daily work of the house as much as he can. He can't leave Maeve's side for long stretches and is therefore unable to put in full days in the fields, but he can help in the kitchen as, under Wren's supervision, the crops and butchered animals are processed. Both she and Cara think a hero bumbling around the kitchen is the funniest thing in the world. He doesn't mind. They could use some smiles. Everyone is tense as Samhain approaches and if he can lighten that at all, he's glad to.
Keely is too tired to gripe about Cairpra's presence, an upside to the chaos of harvest, and too grateful for the extra hands no matter where they came from. All the children of Breakwater adore their new "mamó," including Cara, which Sinbad didn't expect. Keely's apprentice is a quiet, meek little mouse, and while she respects her new mistress and likes Wren, he knows from the way she hangs back that she doesn't consider herself part of the family. But Cairpra's aura is calming and soft, things utterly beyond Keely's capability. Maeve's sister may be a mother and a healer, but she's not a born nurturer. Cairpra is, and Sinbad sees the difference in Cara's response. She honors Keely and is grateful for all she's been given, but temperamentally they're not a good match.
No one is willing to leave Maeve alone these days, not with Samhain so near and Fin constantly threatening to put in an early appearance, so when Sinbad takes a turn downstairs Cairpra settles in the wooden chair at Maeve's bedside and continues the magic lessons that have been put on hold for far too long. Maeve's mood, which Sinbad suspected would only grow pricklier as Samhain looms, improved dramatically the moment Cairpra gave her something useful to occupy her mind. As her health slowly improves and she wakes for longer periods she's able to concentrate better, which makes her happier and in turn improves her bodily health. It's a positive cycle Sinbad wishes he or Keely had thought to begin earlier, but Cairpra seemed to know immediately what Dim-Dim's pupil needed. Maeve is a warrior preparing for battle and a woman preparing for birth, but she's also a scholar and this part of her has been neglected for too long. It's oddly touching to Sinbad when he finds Cairpra in the creaky wooden chair at her bedside, a giant tome open on her lap, arguing amicably with Maeve over some facet of magical theory, Cara often settled on the floor at Cairpra's knee, listening in rapt silence.
Maeve and Keely bawl together—yet again—the day Wren enters the brewing shed with a load of bruised apples from the orchard and lights a fire under the giant kettle for the first time since Antoine disappeared. Brewing is usually a woman's task, but Ant ruled that brewshed from the day he moved in and no one else has ever used it. Keely does not forbid Wren to do so now, but Sinbad notices that she herself never crosses the doorway.
The mood on Breakwater tenses as Samhain approaches. Sinbad does his best to hide his own growing unease, but he suspects it's a pointless exercise. Even the smallest children feel the strain, no matter how little they understand. Mia and Rory, nearly five years old, know that Maeve is critically ill and she and her baby may not survive, but they have no functional grasp yet of what death is. Duncan understands even less, Lily only that Maeve can't get up to play with her, and Con nothing at all. The mounting stress manifests in him as clinginess. He wants his mother to hold him constantly, which she cannot do. Maeve can placate him for short periods, but she's not who he really wants.
Sinbad isn't sure he understands this mess much more than Mia and Rory do. No one knows what the Tam Lin Protocol will require of Maeve on Samhain, and his worry increases with every hour as the date nears. He's almost ready to abandon this ship, to let Scratch take his soul and be done with it. Maeve is still extremely delicate, the child inside her even moreso. Their lives mean far more to him than the soul she plans to save. But he's still afraid of the dark purpose to which Scratch might put his soul, and that danger keeps him from voicing his concerns. He also desperately rejects the idea of Fin growing up without him. He wants to be there for all of it, the good and the bad. Raising his daughter is going to be the biggest adventure he's ever undertaken, he's sure of it. But that adventure can't begin until he knows they're all going to survive.
It would be one thing if he knew what sort of challenge Maeve will face on Samhain, if they could devise some way to prepare. But they know nothing. The challenge in the tale varies from storyteller to storyteller, al-Alawy said, and not even Antoine or Nessa, the only two sìthichean Sinbad knows, were able to tell him any more. They're heading into this fight blind, which is something Sinbad never likes to do. He likes it even less now, with so much at stake.
In desperation, he retreats to the upper floors of the library to dig through the stacks, searching for some sort of clue, something to give him peace of mind. He's never solved problems like this before, turning to books for answers, but Firouz and Maeve do, as does Dim-Dim, and he has no other available option. Maeve is trying her best to heal, storing strength and magic for the coming fight, and her whole family, including Cairpra, are united in this goal. But he's afraid it's still not enough.
This desperate pawing through books feels disturbingly familiar, returning Sinbad in his memory to happier days and their first search through Omar's library in Basra. Before they knew anything about the Tam Lin Protocol, what it would require of Maeve, or how much this quest would take from her. Not just her physical health, but big chunks of her family, too. Dermott. Nessa and Antoine. Her relationship with Doubar. Sinbad's relationship with Doubar. Maeve may yet save his soul, but the fight cost him his brother in the meantime and Sinbad hasn't really grappled with this loss yet. Later, he tells himself grimly as he handles the fragile, burnt books with gentle hands. He'll have time to wring his hands over Doubar later, if Maeve wins this fight against Scratch. And if she doesn't, it won't matter anyway. The hard smile that touches one corner of his mouth has no warmth to it. He remembers laughing with her over the low tables in Omar's library, sleeping with her in his arms for the first time surrounded by piles of books and scrolls, both worn out from worry but awash in the tenderness of this new experience. Never did he believe before that night that he could put his arms around his quick, volatile sorceress and cause her to stay. Like her hawk, she never alights for long. He was afraid, back then, that while he might hold her for the length of a kiss, he could never keep her for good. Now he knows better. She could never be happy as the wife of a farmer or shopkeeper, but something in her soul calls to something in his, this wandering spirit incapable of standing still. She's a spark on the wind, but she's adaptable. She flies on a salt wind as easily as he does.
And he can't let her die now. He can't let Scratch and Rumina hurt her or the child she carries, which is why he's up here, digging through the burned books, seeking anything that might give his champion a better chance. If she or Fin come to harm trying to protect him, he'll never forgive himself. Yes, Scratch and Rumina forced him into this position. But ultimately he's the one who asked Maeve to be his champion. He made the choice. He sired the baby she carries, setting in motion all the chaos that has followed them until this moment. With hindsight, he doesn't know that he would make the same choice again. Not when he knows all it's taken from her, all it might still take. He can picture so many different outcomes of this battle, but so few of them are happy. What if she loses? Or defeats Scratch but dies in the attempt? Or wins, but is then too depleted to successfully birth their baby? Almost every scenario he pictures ends in disaster of some measure, and he can't bear it. He's a hero. He's not supposed to just stand by and let someone else fight for him, especially not someone as sick as she still is.
As he digs distractedly through the stacks, Sinbad knocks a small, palm-sized book from the shelf. He grabs for it before it hits the ground. The blank leather cover holds a dirty, very distinct child-sized handprint, a print he hopes belongs to one of the Breakwater children and not a lost student from Brí Leith. Opening it, he squints at the pages. He reads Arabic reasonably well, Latin haltingly, and is slowly learning Gaelic from sheer necessity. It's not easy, and he suspects part of the problem is that the language was not meant to be written in the Latin alphabet.
The handwriting in this volume is neat and clear, however, which is helpful. He's surprised to see that almost instantly he recognizes a name: Étaín, the princess from the awful story Rory loves, the princess turned into a butterfly by a witch because her demigod lover was an idiot who couldn't keep her safe. Sinbad frowns as he flips past several pages. The little book seems to be a collection of fireside tales, but he doesn't see Tam Lin among them.
What he finds instead is the ending to Rory's favorite tale, the ending Maeve neglected to tell that day aboard his ship. Indignant anger rises in him as he reads, then snaps the book shut, jaw clamping down firmly. With long strides he marches from the library.
"I need an explanation about this, and I need it now." He barges into Maeve's room, holding up the little book, only belatedly remembering that she might be asleep.
She's not. Cairpra sits beside her with a book of her own, and they both have knitting needles in their hands. Sinbad is stunned into momentary silence. Maeve does not knit. She sews well enough to mend sail and clothing, as all sailors do, but it's not a chore she enjoys and he'd lay better odds on her stabbing someone with a knitting needle than using it for its intended purpose.
She proves him correct now as she drops the wooden needles to her chest with a grateful sigh. "Saved! What's got your sails in a twist?"
Cairpra gives her a reproving look. "Knitting is a very useful meditative practice. We'll come back to this later." She gathers her book and her yarn and rises.
"Useful, sure. Meditative, no. Just boring." Maeve shoves the mess of rust-colored wool to the side.
"Boredom, as you call it, can be an invaluable tool. It's all in your perception. You must hone your ability to focus. Must we return to Plato?"
"No," Maeve begs. "Anything but that. I'm an apprentice sorceress, not a philosopher."
"You'll find as you get further in your studies that there's actually very little difference between the two." Cairpra touches Maeve's hair fondly, then leaves, giving them the room.
"Thank you," Maeve tells Sinbad. Her words are warm and heartfelt. "Whatever you're upset about, whatever brought you here, thank you. I've been struggling with that fucking yarn for hours. Why didn't you come rescue me?" She grumbles as she shifts in the bed, readjusting the pillows under her head. "I was shouting and shouting in my head for you. If we're supposedly so closely linked, why didn't you notice?"
Despite his agitation, Sinbad can't help but chuckle. "I'd know if you were in danger. You weren't. Like Cairpra told Keely, no magic in the world can save you from interfering relatives. Or boring lessons, apparently." He settles on the side of the bed and kisses her. Her mouth is warm and sweet and perfect, and the temperature of her skin tells him just as firmly that she's in no danger. She may be irritated with her lesson, but Cairpra would never set her a task that caused her harm.
"Promise me," she says, holding his cheek with a warm palm and nibbling gently at his lower lip. "Promise me that once we're back home I don't ever have to pick up another needle."
He's not sure they're ever going back to the Nomad, but that's not what she wants to hear, so he keeps his mouth shut. "I promise, firebrand." He can't deny her anything when she licks his mouth like that, her voice sweet and ever so slightly petulant, teasing even as she demands what she wants. "You never have to lift another needle if you don't want to."
"Good. I hate it. Mending sail is one thing, but this is beyond maddening."
"Maybe if you had learned as a little girl you wouldn't think so."
"Wrong. I did learn when I was small. I wasn't any better at it back then." She stretches slowly and her gaze falls on the book in his hand. "Is this what you came barging in for?" Maeve plucks it from his grasp. "This is Rory's favorite, Étaín. Her story is part of a larger interconnected saga of gods and heroes. I don't think any of the stories about Finn mac Cumhaill, the hero I named Finleigh after, are in here, though." She flips through the book swiftly until Sinbad puts his palm gently on the pages, stopping her. All his irritation returns as she confirms that Rory, sweet little Rory who played on the deck of his ship in a queen's silken robe, has been in this book and seen what it says. That may even be his dirty handprint on the cover.
"I'd happily burn this book if that wasn't such a raw subject here," Sinbad says tightly. "Where's Niall? Cutting oats still? I need to have a talk with him about what he's exposing his kids to."
Maeve laughs.
Sinbad adores her usual low, sweet chuckle, as musical as pipes, but this is a hearty belly laugh that rivals Doubar's for intensity. She's so joyful that part of him wants to laugh, too, but she's very clearly laughing at him and he's too serious to enjoy her happiness.
"I'm serious!" He sits up straight as a fireplace poker, irritated at her hoots and cackles. "When you told this tale on the Nomad, you conveniently left out the ending."
"Oh, ow." She gasps through her laughter. "Everything hurts. Shit, even laughing hurts, and now Fin's awake." Her howls die down but she continues to giggle, holding the swell of her belly as her cheeks flush warm and pink. Fuck, she's beautiful. Even when she's laughing at him. But he's still not placated.
"It's not funny!"
"It's hilarious," she says, her smile so beautifully wide and bright. He hasn't seen her smile like that since before they left the Nomad, and he aches now as he realizes how much he's missed it.
"It's not funny," he repeats, insistent. "We're going to have to overhaul that library. Put all the inappropriate material up high, where little hands can't reach it."
Her laughter explodes again.
"I'm serious!"
"I know. I know you are." She shifts against the mattress, hands soft on her belly. "Oh, ow. Shit, laughing seriously hurts, and if you make me piss myself I'll never forgive you. Ow." She inhales deeply as if to steady herself, but then dissolves into giggles once more. "I love you, Sinbad. I do. I'm sorry. But even Ant waited until Mia was actually born before he went crazily overprotective, and even he never tried to censor the library. You need to calm down. This tale made you upset the first time you heard it, too. Maybe you should just leave the books alone." She closes the little volume and sets it aside.
"I will happily stay out of that library. I'm not a scholar like the rest of you. But that doesn't solve the problem." He scowls. "What kind of monster tells tales like that to small children? What kind of monster tells tales like that at all?"
"What's so wrong with it?" Maeve asks levelly. "Star-crossed lovers, magic spells, an evil witch, a king in disguise—it seems like typical fireside fare to me."
Sinbad feels the muscle of his jaw clamp down as his irritation escalates. She's not wrong, and yet she is. "You didn't tell Rory the ending."
"He knows it," she says with impeccable calm, and her mild responses to his anger only irritate him further. For what may be the first time, their places are reversed. He's the one boiling over, and she's the one with the calm rejoinders. He does not like it one bit. "Rory isn't interested in the ending. It's about revenge, and that's not a concept he understands yet. All he cares about is that the proper couple is reunited so they can live, as far as he's concerned, happily ever after."
Sinbad exhales a swift, hard breath through his nose. "But that's not how the story ends, and it's sitting right there in the library. With you for a mother, Fin will be reading five minutes after she's born. I don't want her exposed to horrible stories like this." He's going to have to give serious thought to everything he exposes her to, something he hadn't fully realized until now. She's his guardian angel, but he has to protect her, too. Watch over her. Keep her from harm. And that includes the harm stories can do.
"Sinbad." Maeve reaches up with one hand to touch his cheek gently, cupping the curve of his jaw in her palm. She's so warm, her sweet dark eyes as gentle as her touch. "You need to abandon ship, sailor. This is not a battle worth fighting, and you have more pressing things to worry about if worry is what you really want to do."
"It's not what I want to do," he insists, wrapping his hand lightly around her wrist. He kisses her palm as he moves it away from his cheek. "But I can't expose Fin to this."
"Why not?"
"How can you ask me that?" he demands, drawing back.
Maeve's delicate eyebrows draw together as she looks at him curiously. "Are you reading the story right? I know you're not so good at reading Gaelige yet."
"I understood," he says tightly. He's still rocky with her language on the page, yes, but the story was simple to follow. Easy enough for a young child, he thinks bitterly. Maeve is brilliant and he has no doubt Fin has inherited that magnificent brain of hers, which means she'll be digging around in that library very, very soon. "After the part you told Rory, Midir and Étaín go back to his fairyland or whatever, and the man he won her away from hunts them down in revenge."
"He tries to. Is that what you're upset about? It would be a better lesson for small children if he accepted defeat gracefully instead of seeking revenge, I guess, but the tale wasn't meant as a moral lesson. He's the high king of all Eire, and Midir tricked him and stole his woman—never mind that she wanted to go. It was a dishonor and a humiliation, and kings don't deal well with that."
Sinbad scowls. "That's not the problem."
"Is it how he goes about his revenge? Ordering his armies to dig up every fairy mound they can find, looking for the doorway to Midir's kingdom? It's an insult, I grant you. But the pope's men have done far worse as they've pushed their way into Eire."
"That's not it." He frowns at Maeve, watching as she regards him with puzzlement.
"Well, then what? Eochaid, the high king, wouldn't have ever found the doorway to Midir's kingdom if Midir didn't let him. He appeared to Eochaid to stop the destruction of the hills."
"I know. I read it. Then Eochaid demanded Étaín be returned to him because she wasn't won fairly, and Midir set him another challenge, just as when they challenged for her before. My reading comprehension isn't that bad; I know what happened."
"Then why are you so upset? Challenges are a better way for kings to resolve conflict than full-out war." Those pretty brown eyes blink at him and she settles one arm behind her head. It tilts her body more than Keely would probably like, but Sinbad refuses to argue about it. "Remember your friend Kalel, and the trouble he had with that warlord who wanted to turn war into sport? He was dangerous and needed to be stopped, but the idea of replacing war with personal combat isn't a terrible one. The fewer men die for the whims of their leaders, the better."
"The problem isn't the challenge. Midir tells Eochaid he'll return Étaín if the king can correctly identify her, then hides her in a crowd of mirror duplicates. That's...nominally fine, I guess, though I don't for one minute believe he was ever really going to return her."
"I doubt it," Maeve agrees. "Dealing with gods or demigods never works out well for mortals in stories. I'm grateful we've got off so lightly in our own dealings with them so far. I never want to be in a position to have to trust them. Eochaid trusted Midir's word, I think, which was his downfall. He picked the wrong girl out of the crowd of duplicates, and paid the price."
"And that," Sinbad snaps, "is the problem. How can your people willingly tell tales like this? The girl he picks is his own daughter."
"Technically," Maeve allows. "Étaín was with child when she left with Midir. Midir raised her daughter as his own. That's normal, Sinbad. The concept of bastardy your people have just doesn't exist here. Antoine's daughters are clearly his by blood, but it wouldn't make any difference if they weren't. Keely is his, so her children are, too. Niall and Wren don't ever take outside partners, but the same would go for her children if they did. Étaín's daughter became Midir's, and he was the only father she ever knew."
"Then she would have been better off with no father," Sinbad growls. "He's a monster to do to that girl what he did. He may have called himself her father, but he didn't act like it." This isn't just a case of culture clash as Maeve seems to think, isn't something she can shrug away as a peculiarity of her native land. He's an easygoing guy and cultural differences don't bother him. He doesn't care if his daughter ever learns a word of Arabic or rather chooses to live her life among the sìthichean in the northern wilds. But actions like Midir's are unacceptable fodder for children's stories, and he's a little shocked that Maeve doesn't seem to agree. "How people choose to build their families makes no difference to me. My only blood kin betrayed us, while your adopted family saved your life, so I'm very receptive to the idea of chosen families right now. That's not the problem. It's what Midir did to that child when he let the king, her blood father, take her."
"Ah." Maeve is watching him. Sinbad can't tell what's going on behind those tawny-dark eyes, and it irritates the hell out of him. He's learned to read her better than most people do, but she's wearing her scholarly mask, the one he's used to seeing on her lovely face as she puzzles through the huge tomes Dim-Dim left in her care. He's not sure what it means right now, and he hates not knowing. They're so closely linked, as partners in life and through the magic of his bracelet, and he feels he should be able to read her better than this. His inability only adds to his annoyance.
"So you're upset," she says, watching him with those inscrutable eyes, "because Midir gave the girl to Eochaid without telling either of them that he was her blood father?"
"Gave her to him as a wife!" Sinbad's voice rises; he refuses to control it. If this is the sort of tale Celts tell to their small children, then he's going to have to reevaluate his willingness to raise his daughter in the north. She can't be exposed to this. "I realize Midir wanted revenge on Eochaid for digging up all those hills and demanding his wife back—"
"Not a wife," Maeve corrects, dropping her head back on her pillow. "Not property. How many times do I have to say it?"
He ignores her. She can be a pedant about language some other time. "—but what he did to that innocent girl to get his vengeance is unforgivable, and to then make him the hero of a tale told to children as small as Rory is deplorable."
"Like your tales are any better." Maeve snorts lightly. "Brandon is eight years old, the sweetest kid in the world, and he's the first male I've ever heard ask whether Helen of Troy wanted to be kidnapped by Paris, or stolen back by the Greeks. And your heroine, Scheherazade? Remember why she had to start telling all her stories in the first place? You're sailing a glass ship here, captain, if you're upset about the treatment of girls in fireside tales. Best to stop throwing stones."
And...Sinbad has no ready answer to that. Often when he opens his mouth the right thing drops out unexpectedly, but this time nothing does. He scrabbles for a comeback, anything at all. She's right, but that doesn't make him feel any better. He wants so badly for this world to be a better one, a safer home for his daughter than it is. He never realized before just how pervasively threatening a place it is for little girls, but now, with his Fin so near, he feels the weight of this pressure hovering close at every side. He wants desperately to raise her to be as strong as her mother, as confident, as free, but when he looks at the world she's going to inherit, he wonders that any woman survives girlhood with her spirit intact.
"If the tales your people tell and the tales mine tell are all so terrible, then what do we tell Fin?" he demands. One thing he's learned in his time here is that small children love tales. They demand them as frequently as they demand honey, and will work just as happily for a story as they will for butter. This is something he wants to be able to give his baby when she comes, but not at the expense of her spirit. He never wants her to think that actions like Midir's—or Paris's, or those of countless other men now that Maeve has brought them up—are right. He never wants his girl to accept that this is how the world works. Her mother certainly doesn't.
Maeve smiles. The scholarly mask disappears, in its place all the soft sweetness at her core she shows to so few. "You idiot." She cups his face in her hands, the soft pads of her thumbs smoothing over his skin. Her touch is warm and firm, strong yet gentle, and he loves it. She can call him an idiot all she wants, so long as she never lets go. "We're writing her stories now. You've been writing them your whole life. She doesn't need fairy tales. Tell her about the people we've met. The good we've done. The wrongs we've righted. She'll help us write more as we go, too." One delicate, long-fingered hand winds into his hair, combing gently through the dark strands. "You can't keep the ugliness of the world from her, Sinbad, and if you try all you'll do is leave her completely unprepared for it when it comes. I think that's what this is really about, not some story you found in the library. I know you want to keep her world perfectly soft and happy, but you can't, and you won't like the adult she'll become if you try."
"But she doesn't have to be an adult at Rory's age," Sinbad insists, though he's honestly struggling to keep on topic. Maeve's hands are incredibly distracting when she puts them on him, and he suspects she knows that, and does it on purpose. It feels too good to get upset about, so he doesn't bother to try.
Maeve watches him calmly. "I was an adult at Rory's age."
His jaw clenches down. That's not fair. She was an adult at Rory's age because she had no choice, because circumstance stole everything but her brother from her. "That was different," he insists. "You and Dermott were alone. Fin won't be. I won't allow it."
"You can't promise that. You can't promise her anything, Sinbad, except that you'll try. Neither can I. I hate it, and this is the exact reason I never wanted to have kids in the first place. So much is out of our control. But that's how it goes. Your parents didn't want to leave you as they did—I know they didn't. And I hope my mother didn't want to leave me, either. Not deep down." Her hands are so gentle as she strokes him, and he can't get enough. He settles beside her, tucking his body close to hers. She's his rock as fear batters him anew, this emotion that's been his constant companion since learning Maeve carries his child. The intensity now is terrifying as it lashes him like a storm. He can't do this. He can't. He can battle giant rock monsters and hordes of undead skeleton warriors, but he can't raise a daughter. Not like this. Not with the hovering, choking uncertainty that at any moment he might leave her forever, undefended and alone.
And, as so often, Maeve's intuition seems to sense exactly where his mind is wallowing. He cups his hand around hers on his cheek, refusing to let her let go. "We're going to leave her at some point, Sinbad. That's how this works, and not even you can prevent it. Children grow. Parents die. The question isn't if. It's when, and what we'll leave her with. Not things, but tools. Lessons."
"Strength." The word slips from his mouth like a prayer. It's what he wants most for all of them: the strength to face what's coming, both now and later. The things he knows to prepare for and the things he doesn't even know to fear yet. "Why aren't you scared?" he demands.
"Me?" A sharp bark of laughter rocks her body. "I'm terrified. I'm a mess. You think I'm bawling every ten minutes because it's fun? But I can't look as far into the future as you are. I can only focus on one hurdle at a time. First Samhain. Then making sure Fin and I both survive labor. You can worry about what stories to tell her if you want. I've got more urgent problems."
He presses close, holding his family tightly as autumn sunshine floods the little room. Maeve isn't always right about everything as she likes to believe she is, but in this case, she's correct. Not just that they have more pressing problems to worry about, but that having children is an exercise in giving up control. It's something neither of them do well. Because of their personalities and their fractured pasts, they're both more comfortable in command. But having a child isn't about having someone else to boss around. It's about accepting the reality that, no matter how much of a hero he thinks he is, so much is now out of his control. The question is whether he can accept that, accept the uncertainty, as Maeve seems able to do so far. Right now, following where she leads seems like an excellent plan. She may call herself a mess, but at least she's worrying about the right things.
He kisses her softly, the taste of her mouth so incredibly soothing to his frayed nerves. She opens under him, slow and sweet, her hands gentle on his skin, in his hair. No sex, Keely says, but they can have this, and it's more than he was granted while hiding on the Nomad, so he revels in it. Her mouth is sweet as fire, comforting as the gentle rocking of his ship at sea. So many people have tried to take this away from him, tried to take her away, but she's the strongest woman he's ever known and he has faith in her and this bond between them. She was difficult to catch—or maybe he was, he doesn't even know anymore—but the struggle was worth it. Now she's his, and no one gets to tell him he can't kiss her, or hold her tightly against his chest, sharing the heat and energy keeping them both alive.
Outside, he hears the sounds of small children as they help their family bring in the harvest. Antoine, Nessa, and Dermott are missing, leaving hurt and chaos in their wake, but no one in this family is broken. Grief lingers, but life continues even so. Just as his life continued after his parents died. As Finleigh's will continue when he's gone. On and on. And, he realizes abruptly, his whole life he's been building the foundation he'll leave to her. The bonds he's built, the people he's helped. Alliances and friendships, wrongs righted and good deeds done—these are tales to tell his daughter, as Maeve says, but they're more than that. They're the legacy he'll leave her, whenever his time comes. Friends and allies she can lean on when she has need, people she will in turn support as he has. Maybe the greatest of these alliances is the one resulting in her conception, a union between east and west that's not always perfect but always deeply loving. As Maeve said, all he can promise Fin is his best, and he refuses to give less than that. Everything he is, everything he has, is hers—the legacy he'll leave to her in time. He'll tell her all of it: the places he's been, the people he's helped. He'll take her, too. Everywhere. He's master of the seven seas, and this is the legacy he chooses to pass down. He has no sterling bloodline to bequeath her, no vast estates or hoards of gold, but he has this. A ship, and freedom. She won't have to learn about cruelty through the fireside tales Rory loves. Sinbad can teach her in his own way, and his way doesn't include books. It includes the kiss of a salt wind, the unwavering promise of the horizon. And if it ever becomes too much, if she needs a quiet retreat, her northern family will always be ready to welcome her home.
He kisses Maeve gently, fingertips tracing the softness at her hairline. Her mouth can be a terrible weapon when she chooses, her words sharp as knives, but it's also the sweetest he's ever kissed. He'll never get enough. She's a flawed individual, as all people are, but she's perfect for him, and he hopes she understands what he'll never be able to put adequately into words. She's it for him. That's not how things work in his world, where men are expected to take multiple wives and lovers on the side, but he's honestly not interested. She and Fin are more than enough challenge for him.
"You're going to be a great dad, Sinbad." Maeve nips his lower lip gently, sucking lightly on the sensitive flesh. "A terrible pushover, but still a great dad. Fin's lucky. Not many girls get that."
He knows. Doubar's reaction to the prospect of a niece is proof enough. A touch of bitterness haunts his heart, but he banishes it firmly. He has no time to waste dwelling on what he can't change, and after his last explosive confrontation with Doubar he's firm in his belief that his brother falls in this category. What he did to Maeve was deplorable, but what he said about Finleigh is just as unforgivable. She's not a son, no, but that's not something he ever wants her to feel guilty for. He loves her just as she is. If Doubar can't understand that, it's his loss, not Sinbad's.
"I didn't want kids. You know that. But you and Fin are my world, and I'm going to do my best."
"I know. You already are." She kisses him gently. "No more books today, okay? That library holds ghosts for me and fears for you. Leave them be." She sets the little book aside. "Why were you up there, anyway? You're not a big reader unless there's need."
Sinbad stretches and resettles his body against hers, gladly following her lead. No more books today. She doesn't talk about the ghosts in that library but he knows she feels them, and she's right that the books cause him tension that he does not need. He should be downstairs helping Wren and Cairpra in the kitchen but he lingers, intent on the warmth of Maeve's body, her sweetness in this moment. "I was looking for a copy of Tam Lin." He traces the sharp line of her shoulder, kissed lightly with warm little freckles. After weeks of care and food she's starting to look less wraith-like, but Keely says it will be a long time before she regains all the lean muscle she lost. Right now, most of what she eats goes straight to Fin, which Keely says is as it should be, but Sinbad still longs for his strong, graceful sorceress back.
"We don't have a copy," Maeve says as Sinbad drops the little book by her bedside. "I know Antoine asked the other Breakwaters for information. I assume they had nothing useful, since he never passed anything along." She winds an arm around him, gentle and warm. Her body doesn't seem to mind the brisk air from the open window, though Sinbad would prefer to keep it closed for her sake. She refuses, saying she wants to at least smell the autumn if she can't be out in it. A light gust of air propels the smell of sweet apple and sharp leaves into the room, but with it comes the faint odor of old smoke from the little book.
"Does that smell bother you?" he asks, glancing at the book. "The smoke? I can take it away." He can't erase the memories of the fire she and those books survived, but she doesn't have to be surrounded by them constantly.
"No. Those books are mine now. My responsibility as much as Keely's. They were entrusted to me. My legacy, I guess, as the Nomad is yours."
They are, he supposes. This island was given into her care. He doubts the high council would have entrusted such a gift to Keely alone. She survived the fire, yes, but she was never a student at Brí Leith. Sinbad suspects it's the united strength of this clan that decided the high council, not any one member. Maeve earned Breakwater by blood right as the only student of Brí Leith to survive the massacre. Keely earned it with her heroism, the loss of her mother, her loyalty to Maeve. Niall as a defector from a Roman monastery with the necessary knowledge to care for and preserve the books. Antoine and Nessa as ambassadors to the sìthiche community, a tie the high council values even as the pope's men decimate the population. Wren and her children are the hope for the future, the continuation of this promise and task. None alone would be strong enough to entrust the precious books to, but together they've built a whole greater than the sum of its parts. Sinbad is fairly sure Firouz would tell him that's not mathematically possible, but Firouz would be wrong. He sees it before him.
"Keely says I need to talk more. About...things. Brí Leith. I'm skeptical." Maeve frowns. "But the books don't bother me. Not usually." She dips her hand under the collar of his shirt, pressing her palm gently against his upper back as if seeking heat, though the temperature of her skin is perfectly warm. He lets her. He draws just as much comfort from her touch. "I'm sorry we don't have more information about the Protocol for you. I know it's frustrating."
"Try maddening." He rests his hand lightly on the curve of her belly, hidden under the red blanket now stitched back together and returned to its proper place. "I need to know what the challenge will be, but no one seems to be able to tell us."
She rests her hand over his as Fin moves inside her, her warm palm smooth and comforting. "Calm down, captain. I'm the one challenging Scratch, and it really doesn't matter to me what he demands."
"How can you say that?" He frowns at her, and his hand stills under hers. "You're in no shape to go battling a demon, especially this demon."
"But I have no choice. And nobody said I'd have to physically fight him. Maybe it will be a different sort of challenge, or maybe just showing up with my stowaway is enough to win. No one knows." She yawns and tucks herself further into the curve of his shoulder.
"That's the problem—no one knows." He flips his hand and presses his palm to hers, entwining their fingers. "Nobody knows what's going to happen on Samhain, and I don't like that. I don't accept it. Not with you and Fin at risk."
A small, dry laugh bubbles from her. "You don't accept it? What choice do you think you have?"
"There's always a choice," he snaps. "Maybe not always a good choice, but there's always a choice. I refuse to send my chéile and my unborn daughter into a situation we know nothing about and can't prepare for."
"I am preparing," she says, and her voice is growing dangerously close to snapping at him, though her body remains soft and pliant against his. "What do you think I've been doing ever since we got here? I hate this, but I'm being good. Following Keely's rules. I'm trying to get better, to save up enough strength and magic to win whatever challenge Scratch sets. To keep Fin alive in there so we can do this for you."
"I know." His eyes close tightly for a long moment as he struggles against the anxious, uneasy energy in his body. He desperately doesn't want to fight with her. She needs to save her strength, and they need to be united in this cause. She's correct that she's doing everything she can to prepare for the coming fight. He just wishes that they could do more. That they knew more. None of this is fair to either of them, but especially to her. She shouldn't be worrying right now about losing him. She should be scared of giving birth, nervous about this ordeal so many women and their babies don't survive. Instead, she holds the weight of Sinbad's soul in her hands. That's not right. But what can he do? He can't ask her to stand down, to let Scratch take his soul without a fight. At this point, asking that of her might undo all the good Keely's been able to work over the past weeks.
"We just need a little more time, Sinbad." Her voice is gentle, her breath softly tickling the hairs at the open front of his shirt. "I know the wait is driving you crazy. Me, too. But it's almost over. And after Samhain, after this nightmare, then we can rest a little. Really rest, without this constant strain hovering over us."
Except they can't, because Fin is due within the moon after Samhain, assuming all goes well. And then they have still more decisions to make and unfinished business to contend with. The Nomad. Their friends. Doubar. The search for Dermott, Antoine, Nessa. Even Dim-Dim. They need a chance to find a new equilibrium, a new normal, but he doesn't know that they'll ever be allowed this. Life keeps hurtling at them like waves upon the shore, but for the first time in his life Sinbad thinks he might be drowning and the waves won't stop. He can swim, that's not the problem. But he needs a minute to catch his breath.
"Ow." Maeve shifts, reaching underneath her, and withdraws the slender wooden knitting needles, a wadded pile of rust-colored wool attached. Sinbad knows nothing about knitting, but just by looking at that mess he suspects Maeve is terrible at it. That only endears her to him more. "Maybe you should try this," she says, shoving the needles and wool into his hands. "Cairpra says it's great for occupying the mind."
Maybe he should. "Is there a tavern nearby? Maybe in that village across the water? I know you have enough drink here to satisfy an entire navy's worth of sailors, but you're woefully short on faces that need punching."
"No. Sorry. Everyone around here brews for themselves and gets their whiskey from us." Maeve leans back on her pillow, her arm warm on his skin. "I promise, as soon as we're able, we'll find you a good tavern brawl or a ghoul to fight or a usurper to overthrow. You'll feel better then."
Yes, he will, but he'll feel even better once his sorceress has fought Scratch and safely given birth, and his daughter is secure in his arms where she belongs.
That night, Sinbad finds himself alone in the kitchen gathering Maeve's meal, which is unusual. Keely may believe she rules this house but Wren runs it from the main kitchen hearth and Cairpra, who may be old but is also perfectly nimble, has been a welcome additional pair of hands. Tonight, however, as cold blue darkness folds itself around the library, Sinbad is alone. He can smell the crisp applewood smoke that tells him Niall is busy feeding the smokehouse fire and Wren is likely in the brewshed. Cairpra is upstairs with Maeve, and Keely in the village with Mia delivering a neighbor's baby. The children are in and out, impatient for their own meals; Sinbad can hear Lily singing tunelessly to herself nearby. No one is screaming or bleeding, which means it's a good night. Cold air blows through the open kitchen door, but unless it's storming or literally freezing that door remains open, he's learned. Wren prefers as little smoke in her kitchen as possible, and they're all inured to the chill, even the small children who never had to live without a roof over their heads. Maybe they have thicker blood than he does, Sinbad thinks. Something that keeps them warm when frost coats the grass. Ant used to claim it was the whiskey they drink like mother's milk.
Brandon, Niall's eldest boy, enters the kitchen filthy all over. He spent the day with Declan and Rory wallowing in the garden, digging for the last stragglers from the root vegetable crop, and it shows.
"Wash your hands and feet off at least," Sinbad says after a quick glance as he fetches a new loaf of bread from a cupboard. "Your mother will have my hide if she sees your footprints across her floor."
Brandon sighs, his skinny chest deflating as the air puffs out of him. He's a quiet boy, scholarly like his father, but he's still a boy and he dislikes the constant reminders to wash. He's not Declan, however, and he obediently plunges his hands into the bucket by the door.
"What's wrong, Sinbad?" he asks, his words accompanied by the sound of splashes.
"What do you mean?" Sinbad sets out Maeve's tray and places a bowl of cooked apple on it. He detests the hot mush, but Maeve loves it.
Bran paces to the table, wiping his hands on a dirty linen cloth. He looks up at him with Niall's bright black eyes, his too-long hair falling in his face. "Everyone's scared of something, but no one will say what. Is Fin sicker?"
"No, she's the same." At least, as far as Sinbad knows. No one has told him any differently, and he assumes either Maeve or Keely would know.
"Then what's wrong? Da said you were in trouble with a demon, but not to worry about it because he can't touch us. But all the grown-ups are worried anyway. Is that why?"
A wan smile touches Sinbad's mouth. Declan is Maeve's special favorite, probably because he's the worst troublemaker of the bunch, but Brandon is soft-spoken and extremely intelligent, like his father, and Sinbad likes him a great deal. "Nothing gets by you, does it? Although, to be honest, I think it's hard to keep secrets in this house."
"Very hard," Bran agrees. "Will you tell me? Everyone's worried anyway."
Sinbad capitulates. He wasn't aware that the older boys weren't told the whole story, and he's sure Bran can handle it. He's a smart, perceptive kid. Of all the Breakwater children, he seems most likely to follow in his parents' footsteps and remain on the island when grown, continuing the work the older generation began. Children change, and Sinbad may be proven wrong as they grow, but right now he can't see Declan or Mia settling down to a lifetime of scribing. "Do you remember," he says, slicing bread, "the story I told you a while back, about outsmarting a demon named Scratch when he kidnapped one of my crewmembers?"
Bran nods, his thin face solemn. "We know about Scratch here, too. He tried to break in once. It was scary."
"I believe you. Dealing with him was scary for me, too. Scratch wasn't happy that my crew and I outsmarted him. He wanted us to free him from his underworld, where Master Dim-Dim had imprisoned him." He washes several small red carrots and returns to the table to slice them. Maeve likes them raw, and he's become accustomed to cutting them into sticks the smaller children's little hands can easily grasp. "I don't understand all of the details, to be honest, but working with the sorceress Rumina, Scratch placed a claim on my soul."
"That's the lady everyone hates, the lady who turned Dermott into a bird." Bran takes a piece of carrot when Sinbad offers. "What do you mean, he put a claim on your soul? Did he take it?"
Sinbad shows him the skull-shaped mark over his heart. The color has darkened over the moons, and now it looks like a fresh, livid bruise, purple-black and angry. It looks as if it should be excruciating, but he oddly feels nothing when he passes his fingers over it. "That's a very good question. He hasn't taken it yet, but Antoine said this is a mark of ownership. A brand, like you put on cattle. On Samhain, Scratch is going to try to call in his claim."
"Gross." Bran wrinkles his nose. He strongly resembles his father, but his nose turns up a little at the end, like his mother's. Sinbad finds it endearing. He wonders what little bits of himself he'll be able to find in Fin when she's born. Not too much, he hopes. He'd love a perfect little Maeve in miniature, no matter how much hell two of them together will raise. "What will happen on Samhain? Will Scratch come here? Da says he can't."
Sinbad smiles. He's grown far more attached to the Breakwater kids than he thought possible when he first met them, especially the elder boys. Bran has a sharp mind and grasps concepts quickly. His brother is a slippery, energetic little monkey who loves Maeve as thoroughly as she loves him. "No one knows what's going to happen on Samhain. Not even Keely. Not even Cairpra."
Bran's black eyes widen. "But they know everything."
"I wish they did. Unfortunately, they don't."
Bran is skeptical about this pronouncement, and Sinbad doesn't blame him. Keely acts like she knows everything and Cairpra has a quiet confidence the children respond positively to. Why shouldn't they believe the head of their household and their new mysterious grandmother can jointly solve all problems? Sinbad butters Maeve's bread heavily, as she likes, watching Bran's eyes zone in on the knife in his hand. "All we know is that on Samhain, Scratch is going to try to take my soul somehow."
"So you'll have to fight him." Bran crunches his carrot. "Is that why everyone's so worried? You'll win. You always win."
"I appreciate your faith in me," Sinbad says, pouring a mug of the broth Keely still insists Maeve drink with every meal. "But this isn't a battle I can fight. Maeve has to."
"Maeve!" Bran looks horrified. "But she has to stay in bed because her baby's sick."
"I know." Sinbad ladles up a bowl of the beef stew that's been simmering for most of the day. This is the dilemma that's been eating at him for moons, but what can he do? If he tells Maeve he'd rather just let Scratch take his soul the emotional fallout could badly harm her and Fin, and she may not listen to him anyway. Even if she does, she'll then be left alone with a baby to raise. She has her family to help her, yes, but that was never part of the deal and she'd never forgive him for leaving her. This is what keeps his mouth shut more than anything else. He can't cause her any further pain, and right now any deviation from the plan will do that. "It's not right, and it's not fair," he tells his nephew. "But those are the rules. She has to fight Scratch, not me."
"Can't you change the rules? Make up your own?"
Sinbad grins. He likes the way this kid thinks. "I have plenty of times before, but I just don't know that it's possible in this case. Believe me, if I can, I will. I don't want Maeve and Fin in danger."
"What happens if Maeve loses? Do you have to go with Scratch?"
"Yes." Of this, Sinbad has no doubt. He'll fight to the end, but he knows in his heart it won't do any good. Not with that brand on his chest. His enemies have truly caught him this time.
"Will he kill you?"
Sinbad eyes Bran steadily. This parenting thing is tough, tougher than he ever figured it would be. Niall and Wren trust him completely and are always honest with their sons, so he's not worried about saying too much. He is worried about striking the right balance between honesty and reassurance. Bran is bright for his age, but he's still only eight years old. "I really don't know. I wish I did. I want to be able to prepare. I told Maeve that earlier today. But life unfortunately doesn't work like that most of the time. Life happens when it happens, and we have to take it as it comes."
Bran scowls. "I don't like that answer."
Sinbad smiles. "Now you sound like I did this morning. I don't like it either, kid." He used to deal with uncertainty much better than he does now. But this time the life of his daughter hangs in the balance, and that's not okay. Threats to his own well-being are fine, threats to Maeve uncomfortable, but this threat to Finleigh is intolerable.
"If Maeve wins, will you go back to your ship?"
"I don't know that, either. Maeve gets to decide, and we can't make a choice like that until we know more about how healthy Fin is."
"Because she might need Keely?" Bran asks, still eyeing the butter.
"Right. I know you boys like adventure stories, but sailing is very hard work. Maeve and Fin both have to be healthy before we even think about going back." Maeve wants to, he knows she does. She's not interested in settling down permanently. But he has no idea what shape Fin will be in when she's born, or how Maeve will feel once the reality of her own baby to care for sets in. He'll do all he can, but it's still going to be a while before they can even think about returning to the Nomad.
Bran finally caves, snatching a piece of Maeve's bread and taking a bite, smearing butter on his lip. Sinbad doesn't bother telling him off; this won't be the first or last time Maeve receives a meal with bite-sized holes in it. Vultures, Keely calls the children, and they are indeed, but amusing ones.
"If Maeve wins," Bran says, speaking through a huge mouthful, "will you forgive Doubar?"
Sinbad narrows his eyes at the boy.
Bran stares at him, his bright black eyes open and guileless. "I've got ears."
Right. Little ears pick up everything, Sinbad's learned, especially the things they shouldn't. "Whether Maeve wins or not has nothing to do with whether I forgive Doubar." He struggles not to snap at the kid. This is a very touchy subject, but that's not Bran's fault. It's Sinbad's, for not addressing it sooner.
"Da says I should always forgive Dex when he apologizes."
Sinbad forces a smile, but it's utterly false. Inside, he aches. Before this betrayal, he would have told the boys the same. Brothers make mistakes, and brothers should always be forgiving. Dim-Dim taught him that, just as Niall taught his sons. But those long-ago lessons don't apply in this case. They can't. Dim-Dim couldn't ever have dreamed Doubar would hurt a member of the family, the woman carrying Sinbad's daughter. Slowly Sinbad draws a stool up to the high worktable and sits, studying the small face across from him. Bran's thick brown hair falls into his eyes until he tosses it back with a careless shove. A smear of butter still marks his upper lip. "That's exactly right," he says slowly. "Most of the time." He really wishes Niall or Wren or even Cairpra would come and rescue him right about now. This isn't his kid, and he's really not sure how to have a conversation like this.
"You know," he says, leaning back a little, "I remember how it felt to be eight years old. I wanted to be taken seriously. I was the little brother, remember. Doubar was so much older than me, and I thought he knew everything."
Bran smiles broadly. His skinny little chest puffs slightly. "My brothers feel like that about me."
Truthfully, they probably don't. Dex is too close in age, and Rory, while he loves his brothers, is too subsumed in Mia to worship them. But the younger ones probably will when they grow, so Sinbad lets this slide. "I forget sometimes, though, how much simpler things seemed when I was your age. Everything was black or white, good or bad. I didn't understand about shadows."
"I do."
"I think you do," Sinbad agrees, watching the boy across the table. "You're smarter than I was."
Brandon beams. He looks so serious most of the time, like his father, but when he smiles Sinbad sees the playful little boy hiding behind the scholar. He wants so much to be a good older brother and role model. Did Doubar feel the same, when Sinbad was born? The question rises unbidden in Sinbad's mind, and the fact that he can't answer it disturbs him. Doubar has always been his rock. Why did he never ask something so obvious, so simple?
"The thing is, your da's right. Most of the time. Our family and friends are the most important things we have. Our connection with them is...well, it's holy, I guess you could say. More important than almost any disagreement that comes along."
"You said 'almost'."
"Yeah, I did." Sinbad pauses, searching for the right words. This is tough, far tougher than boosting the morale of a flagging crewmember. Bran isn't a sailor. He's an impressionable child, a child with many brothers, and Sinbad desperately doesn't want to say the wrong thing. "I said 'almost' because sometimes...sometimes people do things. Bad things. Things that can't be undone."
"Even if they're sorry after?"
"Even if they're sorry after."
Bran considers this. "Dex lost my bow. He left it on the beach and the tide carried it away. That can't be fixed."
"No, it can't," Sinbad agrees. "But you love your brother. I know you fight. All brothers do. But deep down, if you think about it, I think he's more important to you than your lost bow."
Bran is silent as he weighs this, the weight of a lost toy against the weight of the brother he doesn't remember life without. He bites his lower lip, chewing lightly as he thinks. Sinbad waits. This is important, and the kid deserves his attention as they both, ironically enough, wrestle with the same concept. Outside, full night closes in on the island, cold and sharp, but the hearth is warm at Sinbad's back even with the open door.
"Doubar hurt Maeve," Bran says softly. His eyes meet Sinbad's again. "Like Dex lost my bow. Doubar's the reason Fin is so sick. Isn't he?"
Sinbad badly wants to lie. The boys all love the Doubar they know from Maeve's stories, and he doesn't want to ruin that. He and Maeve are the only ones who should be grappling with this betrayal, not the children. But Bran isn't Rory or Mia. He isn't four years old anymore, and his parents don't lie to him. Sinbad can't make himself, either. "It's true," he says quietly. "He hurt them both. Finleigh wasn't doing well before, but he made it a lot worse."
"Was it an accident?"
"No. I don't really know what to call it. A fight that went very, very wrong, I guess. Maeve and Fin would have died without Keely." Sinbad does not want to admit this, but Bran is very good at asking the right questions. And it was no accident. That much he's sure of. What exactly Doubar hoped to get out of his attack, he doesn't know, but he meant to do it.
"He would have killed them?" Bran blinks as he absorbs this. He has all of his adult teeth in front, which makes him look much older than his little brothers.
"Yes," Sinbad says quietly. "Keely saved them. She's the hero of that story." So far, anyway.
"You would have lost them," Bran says, chewing on his lip again. "And Maeve is more important than my bow."
Sinbad freezes, startled at the kid's perception. Bran's sharp, but he didn't quite realize how sharp. That's exactly the comparison he was slowly drawing for the boy, but it's more than that. Bran's words make Sinbad realize there's another comparison to be drawn, too, one Sinbad hadn't considered yet. By not forgiving Doubar, Sinbad is stating clearly that his bond with Maeve and Fin is more important than his tie to Doubar. The connection he just described to Bran as holy.
Sinbad hates this. It feels wrong to say so baldly. By putting Maeve first, he's rejecting the most important thing Dim-Dim ever taught him. He and Doubar are brothers. Their only blood tie, the oldest bond they have.
But Sinbad isn't eight years old anymore, and as Bran so guilelessly pointed out, Maeve is not a toy. Unlike the boy's lost bow, she's irreplaceable. That's the part Doubar doesn't seem to understand. She isn't a means to an end, isn't just a nest for his daughter as they wait to battle Scratch. He loves her, and that connection is as holy as blood.
"I know these things are tough to understand. They're tough for me, too, and I'm a grown-up. Forgiveness is important, especially of your brothers, but sometimes making a stand is, too. When Dex lost your bow, I'm sure you were upset. But once you calmed down, the question was whether the loss of your bow was important enough to lose your brother over, too. Because that's what not forgiving usually means."
"It wasn't," Bran says, his dark eyes watching Sinbad steadily. "But almost losing Maeve and Fin was?"
And Sinbad is forced to nod. "Yeah. I didn't draw the line, but once he did, I had to choose. Maeve didn't deserve what he did to her, and she and Fin need me. No one said life was easy." He smiles gently at the kid. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive Doubar. Right now, I can't."
"But you're a hero. I thought heroes could do anything."
Funny. Sinbad used to think so, too.
During the night, the weather shifts. Sinbad oversleeps the next morning, his body convinced the sun never rose. The gorgeous, clear autumn dies with finality as rain batters the little islet, hard and slanting, with a bitter ferocity Sinbad has only before seen during storms at sea.
The life of the house continues as if the sun hasn't just forsaken it, Maeve's family at peace with the changing seasons. Cairpra exchanges her silk shawl for a thick woolen one, and the boys grudgingly don shirts, which they don't like to wear. They spent the summer and early autumn in nothing but short breeches and a perpetual layer of dirt, and they're not happy to return to heavier clothing now. But the heavy, driving rain brings with it a damp cold that settles deep into the bones, and even Declan capitulates after a day.
The baby Keely helped deliver on the last clear night of autumn dies a day later. She orders the household not to tell Maeve, and Sinbad agrees. This, along with the ominous shift in the weather, feels like a terrible omen. Maeve doesn't need to know. It will only increase her worry, and she doesn't need any more.
"There's no such things as bad omens," Keely snaps at him when he's underfoot in the kitchen. A glance at Cairpra tells him the old sorceress does not agree. "The weather stayed fine longer than it should have, and that baby was born with weak lungs, I could hear him struggling to breathe from the first. Nothing strange or ominous is going on here."
But Sinbad is proven right when, two days before Samhain, Scratch finds them.
