A/N: Sorry this took a bit of time; syncing the two arcs together as they need to be is proving a little difficult.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Doubar struggles when it comes time to follow Zorah out of the prince's menagerie, away from his crewmates. It feels like a betrayal, like he's giving up on them. This is not how they do things. He's never left a member of the crew imprisoned and just walked away. Sinbad has never left a member of the crew imprisoned and just walked away.
But this situation is unlike any they've ever faced before. He can't just break his people out from behind bars and make a run for it. He wishes he could. Things would be so much easier. But two members of Maeve's family sit behind bars, too. They're perilously close to death, and Zorah's right when she says he can't just saunter back to the Nomad with the deposed prince, Black Rose, and two deathly ill fairies in tow. There are too many soldiers patrolling the palace grounds and the streets of the city. They'd be caught before they ever reached safety.
Plus, he promised that kid. She needs her father, if he's still alive somewhere in the prince's dungeons, and she needs her world set right again. This prince needs to go.
"I'm no good at planning," he grumbles into the wet darkness. It's starting to get cold, and the rain continues to sheet down.
"Then this is an excellent time to learn," Zorah says softly. "Ali Rashid is canny, and also deeply paranoid. He trusts no one, including the men who helped bring him to power. Certainly not his dark sorceress. We may be able to use that in our favor."
"Does he trust you?"
"He never trusted me from the first. There can be no true trust where there is deliberate manipulation. But he put me in a position where I couldn't refuse him, and he knew it."
"Because you loved him?"
"At first," she agrees. "And after, he had all the power, and Rongar's life in his hands. I betrayed my brother once. I refuse to do so again."
Doubar's head buzzes with all the revelations made to him today—too many, too much new information. Rongar and Zorah. Maeve and Dermott. Antoine and Nessa. Siblings bound by blood, but tested near to breaking: by treachery in Zorah's case, desertion in Dermott's, cruelty in Antoine's.
And his own?
Doubar doesn't know. Maybe all three. All he's ever tried to do is what he vowed to his father he would. Protect Sinbad. Keep him from harm. But in so doing, he broke an innocent woman and may have damned them all.
He struggles after Zorah in the deep wet of the night. These palace grounds are her former home, and her familiarity with the terrain allows her to slip through the darkness like a ghost. Doubar follows as swiftly as he can, mired in mud and stumbling over unfamiliar ground. Ali Rashid took everything from this woman. Not just her family. Not just her ancestral home. He took intangible things, too, things Doubar didn't even realize were things until they were wrested from him as well. A sense of belonging. A place and purpose in the world. Integrity. Hell, they've lost their very selves. She was born a princess, though she is no longer. And he's nothing without Sinbad and the Nomad.
But Zorah isn't rendered immobile by this loss. She's not stuck, mired in guilt as Doubar is mired in the mud. She's doing what she can to atone. She kept those fairies alive, bribing a guard to let her care for them, though they are not her kin and no one would fault her for ignoring their plight considering her own. She's also looking after Zainab to some extent, though the kid's probably correct when she insists she doesn't need taking care of. It may not seem like much, but Zorah's living under the thumb of a despot and she's still trying. Everyone else around her seems to have given up. The ones with enough money, like Zainab's uncle, have left. The rest are hiding like rabbits who scent a jackal, but not Zorah. Maybe it's because of her gift of foresight and the unique position it puts her in. Whatever the cause, she's still managing to fight.
"How did you do it?" he asks as they skirt a low fenceline. Without her warning hand, he would have tripped over that blasted barrier in the dark and landed face-first in the mud.
"Do what?" She draws up under a stone overhang and Doubar crowds close, out of the worst of the wet. It's a terrible night. With the continuing humidity, he won't dry out before morning. Maybe not even then.
"Face Rongar again." He wrings out the hood of his cloak, but it still drips in his eyes and down the back of his neck. "After everything. I think I might have turned tail and run." He doesn't know if he'll ever see Sinbad again, but turning tail and running seems like a valid option if he does.
Zorah flinches.
"Sorry. I don't mean to pry. I just…"
"I know," she says quietly, her voice barely louder than the drum of rain on stone and mortar. "You've hurt your brother, too."
Yes, he has. Completely unintentionally, but that doesn't erase the wound. His attack was on Maeve, but he hurt Sinbad just as badly.
"Sinbad is everything," he says, staring down at the oozing mud. "I swore an oath to our father to always protect him, and that's what I thought I was doing. But I was wrong."
"Yes, I know the feeling. Rongar was the one charged with protecting me, but I thought I was doing him a favor, in a twisted sort of way. Ali Rashid convinced me of it. Rongar never wanted to rule. He did it well, but it wasn't what he would have chosen for himself. Ali Rashid convinced me that, if I placed him on my brother's throne, Rongar would be free to pursue the life he wanted. And he and his henchmen were causing so much chaos in the land, chaos Rongar had trouble putting down. I thought my brother wasn't capable of bringing peace back to our people. I was wrong, of course. Ali Rashid was working both sides, creating the problem and offering the solution he wanted me to take."
"Rongar didn't want to rule?"
"No. Never. He's younger than me, just barely." Doubar can hear the smile in her voice. "He was horrified as a young child when our father confirmed to him that he was the heir, not me. A woman has never ruled Bollnah, and by law never will. Rongar fought the edict, but there was nothing he could do, and when our parents died unexpectedly he was forced to take the throne he never wanted and believed was rightfully mine."
"What did he want?" Doubar can barely see her in the darkness, just a brief sway of wet wool as she moves. He never really chose his destiny, either. Most men don't. They follow their father's trade or apprentice with a friend of the family, marry who and when their father decrees, and that's the end of it. Doubar had no father to follow by the time he was ready to pick his trade, but he had a brother. Sinbad chose the sea, so he followed where his brother led without a glance back. And, until this moment, he's never even considered the possibility of regret.
Does he regret the path he chose?
No. No, his gut tells him, and this feeling is far louder, far more powerful than the conscience that used to whisper in his ear but has long since fallen silent. He doesn't regret following Sinbad anywhere. He's had so much fun, and they've done so much good. How could he regret that? He now sees that maybe there could have been other choices, other paths for him to take, which he hadn't realized before. But those possibilities existed a long time ago, and he doesn't regret their passing. He made his choice.
"Rongar wanted to sail," Zorah says, a dry, ironic lilt to her voice. "To explore. And, perhaps more than that, he wanted friends. The life of a ruler-to-be is a very lonely one. He had no real friends except for me. Even the children of our father's courtiers were learning from their parents to scheme. They wanted to be close to him not because they liked him, but because of what they hoped he could give them. And he could never abide that. We grew up with great privilege, Rongar and I, but he was also extremely lonely."
Doubar has no idea what it feels like to rule a kingdom, but he does know loneliness. It's been his constant companion lately.
"He's not lonely anymore," he says softly.
"I know. I can see it in his eyes, the way he is with you. That's all I ever wanted for him, and Ali Rashid convinced me Rongar could have it if he wasn't chained to his throne and his kingdom anymore. It wasn't the only reason I helped him. But it was one. And, while I know it was wrong, I am glad to see he's found some happiness despite what I did to him."
Doubar breathes softly. That's what he wants for Sinbad, too. Just...happiness. He admits that he still has his reservations about Maeve, whether she'll stay, whether she can keep him happy. But he can't deny that Sinbad wants her. He's wanted her since the beginning, and that desire has only grown the longer she's been with them, which isn't normal for Sinbad. Usually his interest in any woman wanes quickly, regardless of whether she gives in or denies him. But not this one. And that tells Doubar, maybe even more than the child she carries, that this girl may be permanent. So long as that's what Sinbad wants, who is he to argue?
"Sinbad loves her," he says into the night. "I knew it. And I hurt her anyway."
"You did," Zorah agrees. "And I knew Rongar wished to keep his throne, but I helped Ali Rashid take it from him anyway."
"So how did you do it? How did you face him again?"
Zorah is silent for a moment. Doubar wishes he could see her, but she's a shadow among shadows right now. He hears a guard on patrol pass nearby, but the man can't see any better in the dark than they can. "It was...unexpected. I knew he was coming, but not when or how. I thought I was prepared, but then he was before me and that preparation disappeared." She shifts her basket from one arm to the other. "All I could do was just...be, Doubar. We spend so much time agonizing over the past and worrying about the future, but life happens regardless. It happens in the moments we least expect, in the cracks between doing so-called important things. For me, it happened as I braced and waited for the appearance of Sinbad, a man I knew Ali Rashid and his dark sorceress were lying in wait to capture. I expected a famous hero, not my own personal hero. And when he came, all I could do was admit I was wrong and wait for his choice. He didn't have to forgive me. Probably he shouldn't have. But he did, because he is Rongar and that is what he does."
Doubar doesn't know what to say. This isn't usually a problem for him, but it's the middle of the night, his head is reeling, and his mind is too full to hold everything he feels. One thing Zorah says stands out to him, though: Rongar is indeed forgiving. He's a good man with a tranquil personality and a huge heart, difficult to rile though ferocious in defense of his friends. Sinbad is a gentle man, too, but not in the same way, and he doubts his brother is capable of the same level of forgiveness.
"You are worried about your own brother," Zorah says through the rain. "And yourself."
"Is it that obvious?"
"No. Just that human."
"I swear someone else said something like that to me once."
Zorah's feet squelch in the mud as she shifts. "Our situations are not the same, though I can certainly see the similarities. I've had time to come to grips with what I've done, and so has Rongar. It's been nearly three years—a very long time. And hurting someone you love is not the same as hurting someone they love. Had I harmed a hypothetical son or daughter of Rongar's, he would have hunted me down himself."
Doubar doubts that. Hyperbole aside, Rongar isn't the type to exact vengeance, though he does agree with Zorah's general point: she only hurt her brother. Doubar hurt Sinbad's unborn child. That's an entirely different level of pain.
"If you are looking for judgment and condemnation for what you did, Doubar, you will not find it here. Antoine might oblige you, were he well enough, but he's not. And he has his own wrongs to come to terms with. Underneath the effects of the iron poisoning, I assure you he's not handling them well. In any case, what you did to the bright woman and by extension your brother is between the three of you, not me. And I am in no place to pass judgment, or provide absolution."
"I know that." Doubar isn't entirely sure what else he expected from her. He was furiously angry at his friends for shunning him, but that was before he accepted responsibility for what he's done. Now he almost wishes they'd choose to hate him again. He deserves it, and in some weird way, the shunning is easier to bear than his own internal grief.
"Your friends can't give you absolution either," Zorah says, as if he's spoken. A small chill runs up his spine. Dim-Dim used to do that. He liked when his old mentor did it, but he doesn't like when sorceresses catch him off guard with their intuition these days. "I don't think even your brother can. It must come from her. And from yourself—a two-pronged fork. Rongar has forgiven me, and after nearly three years I am beginning to forgive myself. It took a long time, but the process cannot be forced or hurried. How long will it take you? I have a feeling that head of yours is a stubborn one."
It is. Like Maeve, he can't be convinced unless he wants to be. Sinbad is easier. Firouz and Rongar are easier. And he suspects forgiving himself may hinge on whether Maeve can ever forgive him. Whether she and her child survive. Whether Sinbad survives. So much of this is out of his hands.
"Your bright woman is strong. A fighter." Zorah shifts her basket again.
"Her name is Maeve," Doubar says softly. "Her name is Maeve, and she's grumpy and funny and tough as nails. She was my friend. Almost my sister. Until I decided she wasn't."
"And what will you do to right this wrong?"
"I don't think it can be."
"It may not," Zorah agrees. "But what would you do, if you could?"
Doubar's eyes narrow. He's talking to a soothsayer, someone who sees glimpses of the future. Dim-Dim's gift does not work the same way, but he knows the scent of prophecy when he whiffs it. "What have you seen?" he demands.
"Nothing clear. Your Maeve is adrift, your brother drowning, but I can't be more precise. I would if I could. As I told Rongar, I believe a key decision has not yet been made. But I see the cutting of a thread, the ending of a line. It's possible you may never get the chance to offer atonement, but the question is still useful regardless. What would you do to make this right, if you could?"
A wash of panic threatens to swallow him. Sinbad's time is nearly up; they don't have time left to waste adrift or drowning. Maeve needs to be healthy enough to fight Scratch and win Sinbad's soul back. "Anything," he says instantly. "I would do anything, give anything to make this right—anything except my brother's life." He knows this without question. He'd cut off his own arm if he could have everything back the way it's supposed to be. He'd give everything he has, everything except his brother.
"Be careful with those words, Doubar. Many men say they would give anything. Few mean it."
Doubar knows, but he does mean it. He'd give his own life and die without protest for his brother. He'd give everything he has to stop his brother's hurt, and stopping Sinbad's hurt means making things right with Maeve.
If that can ever be done.
"I gave a vow," he insists. "I swore to my parents to always protect him."
"As Rongar swore to always protect me. I've come to believe that this isn't a fair expectation to lay on any child's shoulders, and great harm can come of it." She lifts a hand and touches Doubar gently. "Love your brother. I love mine. But it may be time to release yourself from an unfair vow that should never have been asked of you. He's a man grown now."
Doubar frowns. "He may be a man grown, but no one finds trouble like Sinbad."
"And he always finds a way out, too, doesn't he? Isn't that what heroes do?"
Doubar shuts his mouth and considers this. Yes, that's exactly what heroes do. But this time Sinbad is caught in a web he thus far hasn't been able to extricate himself from. Of course, neither can Doubar. Only Maeve can free him now.
"Consider it," Zorah says, and drops her hand. "I have to get back to Zainab. She shouldn't be left alone all night with the unrest in the streets. The soldiers won't bother my home, but I don't know that she'll stay behind the locked door as she should."
"She's a tough one," Doubar agrees. "Fearless. Like Maeve." He stares into the darkness. He had planned to return with Zorah, to gather supplies from the Serpent and rest a little, hoping a plan might come to him in his sleep. But he's too jittery and unsettled for sleep after all he's discovered tonight. He can't just lie down and sleep while he knows his friends are in such danger. Zorah may insist that Ali Rashid won't harm them until he's caught Sinbad, but Rumina is in the palace and he doesn't trust Rumina. She could go off on a whim and turn them all into monsters, or puffs of smoke, or—hell, he has no idea what she's capable of, especially now that she's desperate. That necklace around her throat isn't getting any looser, tomorrow is Samhain, and she's running out of time.
"I won't be able to sleep," he says, eyeing the palace. He can't see Zorah, can't see anything except the dim glow of distant lighted windows from the sprawling building. The city beyond looks dark and deserted, save for a few soldiers trudging muddily through the rain with a sputtering lantern.
"You can plan," she says. "I don't know that I'll sleep, either, with Rongar in danger."
"I'm no good at planning, I told you." He's a man of action, not forethought. He's never been a planner, and he doubts his brain will suddenly start now. "I have a disguise. I'm going to go scout around."
He expects Zorah to argue with him; to his surprise she doesn't. "Be careful," she says instead. "The soldiers are mostly mercenaries, and idiots. But I can't guarantee your safety or rescue you from trouble if you're discovered."
"Then I guess I can't be discovered." He jams his metal helmet firmly on his head. More water trickles down the back of his neck.
"Act confident," Zorah urges in parting. "If anyone questions you, act like you have seniority. And don't brawl if you can avoid it—that will only attract unwanted attention."
Don't brawl. Right. He can do that. Can't he?
Why not?
He may be sacked and no longer the first mate of the Nomad, but Doubar is a good friend of the rightful prince of this land. He has more right to be here than anyone else tromping around in a grey cloak. If they're working for Ali Rashid they're either mercenaries or traitors, and either way, Doubar is happy to give them a pounding. He'll heed Zorah's warning for now, but he can't make any promises if he stumbles across something he doesn't like.
The palace grounds are treacherous with mud and darkness. Doubar picks his way swiftly around the back of the grand building, heading away from the menagerie and toward the smell of the sea. The air is thick with humidity and the stink of mud and animals, but briny wafts of wind reach him from time to time, guiding his feet. He wants a lay of the land, a rough idea of where the Nomad is and how many soldiers are guarding her. He may not be first mate anymore, but he can't let any harm come to Sinbad's ship. Rongar may be captain, but the safety and well-being of the ship and its crew is everyone's job, not just his.
Rongar's palace is neither as large nor as opulent as the caliph's residence in Baghdad, but it looks old and dignified and there's a graceful beauty to the stone structure that reminds Doubar strongly of his own homeland. Even in the dark and the rain, the pale stone almost glows. Delicate columns and exquisitely crafted archways decorated with finely carved patterns and inscriptions draw the eye toward the black sky. He could imagine lounging happily in these courtyards, by the side of a reflecting pool, shaded by pomegranate trees. Rongar is one lucky son-of-a-bitch if he grew up here.
But sheeting rain overfills the reflecting pools tonight, turning the yellow stone walkways to mud. Doubar squelches, his mood sour and turning sourer as he rounds a corner and finds himself at the back of the palace, facing a cluster of roughly-built wooden barracks. They look as if the rain might bring them down at any minute.
"Come for the fun, man?" a voice says behind him. Two soldiers pass, one slapping him congenially on the shoulder. They chuckle.
"Fun?" Doubar frowns. Keeping away from the other men in grey cloaks is best for his disguise, but if he doesn't talk to anyone he'll never learn anything. "I've got rounds to make," he says, hedging. He has no confidence in his ability to pull off this ruse—no confidence in his ability to do most anything on his own. But everyone else is behind bars, which means he has no one else to lean on. Only himself. This is not a situation he's ever found himself in before, and he hates it. It shakes him to his foundation. He functions well as part of a team, but he's not the sort of man who's meant to be alone.
"As if anyone's keeping track of guard duty on a night as foul as this. The lieutenants and commanders are all blind drunk in the prince's wine cellar." The man who touched him snickers. He's tall, though not as tall as Doubar, and his speech lacks the soft local accent. Mercenary, his voice tells Doubar, which fits with Zorah's description of the situation. That suits Doubar just fine. Mercenaries are skilled fighters, but they fight for coin, not love, which means their own skins are worth more to them than their cause.
"Come on," the other man urges. "You don't want to miss this."
"What's the fun, then?" Doubar asks cautiously. He steps toward them, his sword hand tense. They don't seem to have noticed anything odd about him, for which he's grateful. Little Zainab was sharper than these idiots.
"The prince decided to get creative with his whore's punishment tonight," the first man says, heading for the barracks. "The pretty little Lazi bitch who keeps disgracing him by trolling for sailors down at the harbor."
"Whipping that one does no good. Public shaming does no good," the second man adds. "So he's given her to us for the night. I guess he figures if she wants other men so badly, she'll get more than her fill." He laughs loudly.
Doubar's feet freeze in place. "You can't be serious."
"I know, right?" the first guard says, utterly misinterpreting Doubar's disgust. "She was expensive, too, from what I hear. Shipped a long way. His Majesty has exotic tastes. But even he can't guarantee a girl's obedience, sight unseen, no matter how much he paid for her."
"She won't go trolling the docks for sailors anymore, though," the second guard says, a note of dark pleasure in his voice. "Not after tonight. She won't dare stick her nose outside the harem."
No.
A wave of fury washes through Doubar. He has no idea who this girl is, but this sort of treatment is unacceptable and he refuses to let it happen. He says a quick apology to Zorah for disregarding her warning about keeping a low profile, and charges forward. The two guards with him laugh loudly.
"Eager now, are you?" one chuckles. Doubar's fist lands squarely in his face.
"Hey, there's no call for that," the other man says irritably. "Everyone will get a turn. Brawling will only get you reduced to dungeon duty."
Doubar brings his fist down on the top of the man's metal helmet, felling him instantly. A small, pleased smile touches his mouth under his dripping beard. That felt good. Really, really good. He hasn't had a decent excuse to use his fists in far too long.
Striding swiftly, he reaches the barracks and yanks the door open. Inside, he finds a jeering crowd of men gathered around what looks like their commander, holding a terrified but defiant woman by the arm. Her hands are bound behind her, but her dark eyes glare balefully at the men surrounding her.
"Quiet," the commander snaps. "You, get to the back. You're late. I'm in the middle of explaining the rules."
"I have a new set of rules." Doubar strides forward, fists clenching. The commander is older than his troops, and his cloak is hemmed in red. But he's no bigger than Sinbad, which means he's far smaller than Doubar. One swift fist to his gut doubles him over and another to his bent face drops him. "First is, you treat ladies like ladies. Or you get hurt."
"Yeah," a man says behind him, and Doubar hears the unmistakable hiss of a sword being drawn from its sheath. "But we also treat whores like whores, and this one has it coming. You want to keep her all to yourself? That's not how this works, brother."
"You," Doubar growls, turning on the men, his hand on his own saber, "are not my brother. And no one deserves what you were about to do here."
"What are you doing?" the girl hisses, jumping swiftly behind him. Her arms are still bound, but her legs are free and she ducks behind his bulk as the guards align themselves against him.
"Saving your skin. These animals want to tear you apart." Doubar shifts, keeping his bulk between her and the advancing crowd.
"And now they want to tear you apart, too," she snaps. "Great job, genius."
"Would you rather I let them?"
Behind him, she falls silent.
"If you see an opening to the door, take it. Run. Get out of here. I'll keep these animals busy." He draws his saber and smiles grimly. "It's been too long since I did this."
The men attack as a pack, and Doubar laughs as he deflects them. No one here is bigger or stronger, though they're trained mercenaries. His body loosens as he fights, remembering the happiness of this action, how it feels to strike down a foe. He sort of wishes this fight were harder than it is. Swords clash and clang, and the reverberations run up his arm. He twists his wrist and elbow, bringing the hilt of his saber down on an opponent's unprotected tibia, shattering the bone. The man howls as he drops.
"The prince will hear of this!" another man yells as he attacks.
"Will he?" Doubar chortles. "What will you tell him? That a fight broke out among his soldiers over his woman? That his troops weren't disciplined enough to handle one little girl? Or that one soldier out of his entire force had a conscience?" Not that he believes in a conscience anymore—not after it steered him so impossibly wrong before. But he knows with everything he is that he's doing the right thing now. He doesn't need a little voice whispering in his head to tell him so.
The final man goes down with a yelp and lies silent, a jab from Doubar's huge fist directly to his kidney felling him like a tree. Doubar pants with exertion, but he's full of satisfaction. He needed that. He really, really needed that.
Movement from the corner of his eye draws his attention and he whirls, but it's just the girl. She wiggles out from her hiding place under a soldier's bunk. Her arms are still tied, and Doubar curses softly as he drops to a knee to free her.
"Why did you do that?" she demands.
"How can you ask me that? I just saved you!"
She pulls the rough rope from her wrists and rubs them gingerly. Doubar can see the red marks where the rope chafed her skin. "We should go," she says, rising swiftly to her feet. "They'll be up again in a moment."
"Not after I knocked them down," Doubar says, but he follows her willingly out of the barracks and back into the rain.
"Who are you?" she demands, glaring at him in the darkness. "You're no soldier. Not if you just saved me. None of them care. What do you want? You want to administer Ali Rashid's punishment all by yourself?"
"No!" He stares at her. Is she crazy? He's used to damsels in distress thanking him once he's saved them, not yelling at him. "Why would you think that?"
"Because what you did makes no sense!" she snaps.
"Has no one ever helped you before, just because it was the right thing to do?"
"No. That only happens in fireside tales." She continues to rub her wrists as the rain sheets down.
Is that what she thinks? "I'm sorry," he offers. "Sorry that you feel that way. That's not my experience at all. Many people have helped me when I needed it, and I've helped others. Not for personal gain, but because that's what it means to be human."
"It is not," the girl says. "What it means to be human—especially a man—is to snatch all you can, when you can. Anyone who says otherwise is deluding himself."
Doubar wants...he doesn't know. To hug her. To leave her to stew in her bitterness. He has his own troubles, and she's a distraction from his true aim. She's right that it would have been safer to just let her be, let her punishment happen. The more soldiers distracted with the girl, the fewer roaming the grounds, after all. But he couldn't. It's not in him to just turn away from something like that. It never has been.
"Not all men are like that," he says quietly, though he's not sure why he bothers. He needs to get going, to continue his search for the Nomad and anything else he can learn.
She squints at him through the rain. "Are you a eunuch? Is that your problem? I didn't think people did that much anymore, but what do I know?"
He snorts. "No. Not even close. But I...care." It sounds stupid even to his own ears, but he can't take it back now.
The girl is silent for a moment. Then: "You're a very strange giant."
"Name's Doubar."
Her eyes lock on him and narrow dangerously. "You're Sinbad's brother."
He hesitates. He has no idea who this girl is, only that she belongs to Ali Rashid and she needed help. But what's the point of lying now? "And if I am?"
She hesitates. "I should turn you in. The prince is looking for you."
"To lock me up as bait for Sinbad, I know. But my brother isn't here. The others have told him, and told Rumina, but they won't listen."
The girl sucks her lower lip into her mouth and chews hard on it. Her eyebrows furrow as she puzzles this through. "Why would you be here and not your brother? It's him the sorceress wants."
"I know," Doubar says with a small groan. It's always Sinbad everyone wants. "But he's busy. We honestly had no idea what we were walking into. We only came to ask for Zorah's help locating a lost crewmember. We didn't know what would happen."
The girl hesitates. Her thick, curly hair has long since lost its frizz and, fully saturated, hangs heavy down her back. The thin silk she wears is beyond saving. "I'm Shirez," she says finally. She makes no move to rush for the palace, and though Doubar doesn't trust his intuition anymore, he has a feeling she's not going to turn him in.
"What will you do now?" he asks her as they huddle in the wet. "You can't go back to that palace."
Her chin lifts. "Why can't I?"
"Why would you? Why would you ever choose to go back to that? To a prince who treats you like...like…"
"Like a possession? That's what I am, stupid." Her scowl is intimidating. "He bought me from traders who bought me from other traders, who bought me from my father, fair and square."
"Yes, but…" Doubar struggles to articulate his thoughts. He's never had a problem with concubines before, but he's never encountered a man who treats his the way Ali Rashid does. "You have choices," he says. "You could run away."
"Why? To what? I have no land to farm, no skills to market, save one. I prefer being beaten by a rich tyrant than whoring on the street and maybe starving, thanks." She turns away, and even in the darkness Doubar can see the raised welts on her bare back where she has indeed been beaten.
"Listen. Rongar, the rightful prince of this land, is here," Doubar says, pitching his voice low. "We didn't come intending revolt, but surely you can see that it needs to happen. People are hurting. Even you, in the lap of luxury. Can't you see it?"
"Of course I can see it," she snaps. "But I don't see what any of that has to do with me. Or you, for that matter. You didn't come to save us, you said so yourself, and you're not Sinbad. You're no hero."
Doubar inhales a slow breath. No, he's no hero. That's Sinbad. But he's all these people have. "I may not be a hero," he says, "but I'm here. I'm trying. Rongar is here. These people are tired of Ali Rashid's rule. If we can help them, I believe they'll rise up."
"I don't. Maybe a year ago. Two years ago. Now they're broken. If you want a revolution, you came too late."
"I don't believe that," Doubar insists. "Rongar cares about his people. Zorah cares."
"Zorah can do nothing," Shirez scoffs. "She's just as much a pawn as I am. Ali Rashid paid for me in coin and paid for her in treachery, but the end result was the same."
"Maybe it was," Doubar allows, "if the end result is that you both hate him, and want him gone."
"Who said I want him gone?" she demands. "I don't know this Rongar. He may be better, he may be worse. He may keep Ali Rashid's harem, or sell us, or have us killed. If he keeps us, he may treat us worse. Why should I help you overthrow the devil I know, only to install the devil I don't?"
"Rongar is no devil," Doubar insists, drawing back. He realizes the girl knows nothing of the man, but he's indignant nonetheless. Rongar is one of the most just men he's ever met. He'd do right by the women Ali Rashid has collected, Doubar knows he would.
"Says you. You ever lived in a harem?"
Okay, he gets it. Men who are good to other men may not be so to their women. But Rongar isn't like that. He knows it as surely as he knows Sinbad isn't like that. Rongar protected Maeve to the best of his ability, even from Doubar as much as he could. Talia has been his close companion, too, since joining the crew, and she's not one to stand for ill treatment from anyone.
"I'm not saying that things will be perfect. I'm not even saying that we'll win for sure, because that's never a guarantee. But isn't the chance at a better life worth it? He treats you like dirt. He's going to kill you one of these days."
Her dark eyes shift away from him, and Doubar can see in that instant, to his horror, that this is exactly what she's been aiming for. That's why she pushes Ali Rashid, looking for other men as the soldiers said, tempting his ire. She wants an end.
"There are other ways to stop the pain," he says softly.
"You don't know that." Her voice cracks.
"I do."
"You don't! You're a sailor. You can go anywhere, do anything. You're free! You belong to yourself!" Her hands curl at her sides as she squares her smaller self with him and stares him down. "I don't have that freedom. No woman in that palace does."
"You could," he says. "I can't make you any promises. I know better than that. But nothing will change for you unless you try. Rongar is a good man, and even if he wasn't, there's always Zorah, too."
"Women can't rule here," Shirez says, but there's a shift in her sullen voice. She's listening. He's getting through to her.
"How do you know without taking a chance? Freedom is something I was born with, aye, but it's also something that can be seized, when the moment is right. The rightful prince is here. Sinbad isn't, but I am. Aren't there dungeons full of people tired of this shit? I know there's a city full; I've seen it."
"There are," she allows finally, her shoulders slumping. She exhales a deep sigh of resignation.
"Well, what if we break them out? Get them weapons from the prince's armory?"
"They're not trained like the prince's mercenaries," she warns. "You don't know that they'll even want to fight, or be any use at all."
"I think they will. I've done this sort of thing before," Doubar says. "Often, people in pain want to rise up, but they need a reason. And a leader."
"And that's you?" she says, voice full of scorn.
"No." He denies this swiftly. Not him. Never him. "Usually that's Sinbad's job, but in this case it's Rongar's. This is his land. His people."
"And from what I hear, he's the newest exhibit in the prince's menagerie," Shirez says bitterly.
"I can fix that. And if you help me, we can bring him an army. What do you say?"
Maeve dreams. She knows she's dreaming, and she surrenders to the visions that swirl muddily around her, shifting from moment to moment, heartbeat to heartbeat. Time stops, or races, or maybe has no meaning at all. For an instant she's a young teenager again, back on the rocky shorefront where Dermott was first cursed, calling gently to him as he flaps and screeches on the wet stones, bruising himself as he lurches awkwardly in a body he doesn't know and can't control. He tore her arms to the bone that day, in the chaos of being just-turned, his mind and the mind of the hawk battling for dominance over his new body. Keely healed her, cursing Rumina soundly the whole time. Nessa sat up with Dermott all that night, crooning to him, inching closer and closer to his terrified, feral form, but it was Maeve, in the end, who was first able to touch him without injury.
A moment later she's a small child hiding in the cramped confines of a fox den, the smell of earth and blood thick in her lungs, pressed tightly against Keely's body. It's painfully cramped, too small for the both of them, but they make it work, Keely's sharp elbow digging into Maeve's ribs, her chin jammed against Keely's skull.
"My mother's dead," Keely breathes against her throat.
"I know." Everyone is dead. The world is fire and everyone is dead, except Maeve walked out of the conflagration alive because fire can't harm her. It's never harmed her. She grabbed hold of the hand reaching to pull her free of the flames, a stranger's hand—Keely's hand. They ran without looking back.
"Will the Tuatha dé Danann be mad at us for hiding here?"
Brí Leith was built on an ancient mound, but Maeve has gathered firewood and plants in these woods for years and never seen any hint that the legends about the place are true. Of course, she never dug into the hill before. Not until she and Keely scrabbled and crawled and forced their way into this abandoned fox den, seeking safety from the soldiers and the flames.
"Maybe they don't exist," she says, blinking dirt and soot from her streaming eyes. "Or maybe they'll grant us our lives as a boon."
"I want my mam back."
"I want my brother."
The vision shifts. The memory of Brí Leith melts, with mention of the legendary demigods, to one of story. Brí Leith is supposedly the doorway to Midir's kingdom, and Maeve sees Étaín transformed into a magnificent butterfly, watches Midir mourn for the love he should have kept safe. Except the faceless witch from Rory's favorite fireside tale is faceless no more: in Maeve's dreaming, she's Rumina, and she stares into Maeve's eyes as she laughs.
"He's mine or he's no one's, peasant. You knew this was the only way it could ever end. You are nothing! How did you think you could ever give him what he wants?"
Maeve shuts her eyes tightly against the vision. Rumina is right. Maybe she's always been right. Sinbad is a hero, and she's just a foreigner. A heathen. He thinks he wants her, says he loves her, but in the end, she failed him far worse than Midir failed Étaín. She couldn't keep their daughter safe long enough to fight Scratch, and in giving in and birthing her, she damned Sinbad's soul to hell. She fought as hard as she could for as long as she could, but in the end it wasn't enough.
"If you refused him from the first, as you should have, he'd have come to me eventually. He had no other choice. I could have saved his soul. Now he's doomed, and it's you who doomed him."
"No." Maeve's eyes snap open and she stares at Rumina's lovely face. The sorceress is so many things she herself is not. Feared. Accomplished. Polished and sophisticated. She shines like jet, or obsidian, something dark and precious. Beside her, Maeve just feels tired and awkward and dirty. Like the barbarian everyone says she is. But Rumina is also very, very wrong, and she cannot let it stand. "I may have failed, but he would never have turned to you. If you were the last woman on earth, he would never have turned to you."
Rumina snarls, and power gathers in her hands, blue sparks that light dangerously. "You lie!"
"She doesn't."
Sinbad.
Maeve tries to back away from the dark sorceress, but Sinbad's arms hold her tightly. There's nowhere for her to go, and instantly the wish to flee leaves her. If he's with her, she has nothing to fear. Together they've always been able to win against Rumina; it's only apart that they falter. "It's okay," he breathes, his words soft as silk in her ear. "I've got you. Everything is fine now."
She wants so badly to believe him. She wants to bury herself in him, hear him tell her once again that he believes in her. She's having a difficult time believing in herself right now, and she needs that anchor returning her to her safe harbor. Far away in the distance, she hears the thin, bleating cry of a newborn.
Her newborn.
Her stomach flips and her heart tears open. Fin. She needs to go to Fin. But Sinbad's holding her tightly, so tightly, and she doesn't have the willpower to break free. She can smell him, warm and male, surrounded by the salt tang of the sea. His arms clamp down hard on her body, just as she craves. It eases the nervous ache inside, and she calms.
"I'd never damn any child of mine to life with you as a mother," Sinbad snarls at the witch. "Scratch can have my soul first."
"If that's the way you feel about it." Rumina glares, her stare dark and cold as a midnight glacier. "You want him to devour your soul? You want to live in agony for all eternity? Be my guest. I gave you more chances than you deserve, you filthy sea slug. I would have borne you sons, strong sons to bring up correctly. That filthy, sickly little half-breed bastard you got instead will die quickly—surely you can see that? Maybe Scratch will let you watch before he devours you." She laughs, the musical thunder of shattering icicles.
No. Maeve refuses to believe it. Fin is strong, like her father. She won't die. She may be forced to grow up without a father—this isn't something Maeve can prevent any longer. But she won't die. Maeve won't let her.
The vision shifts and Rumina disappears, her bitter laugh fading into the wind. Sinbad remains. Maeve turns, clinging to him. She loves the heat of his arms, the constriction. She digs her fingers into the folds of his shirt, the meat of his shoulders, and refuses to let go. She smells clean salt wind, warm and sweet, tossing her hair. Under her feet, the deck of the Nomad rocks gently. Fuck, she's missed this. Breakwater is soft and safe, full of warmth and kindness, but it isn't home. Not like this. Her heart understands, even if her mind does not. This is where she belongs. Where Sinbad belongs. Finleigh, too. It's their home. She buries her face in the crook of Sinbad's shoulder and refuses to move. Maybe, if she never stirs again, this vision will stay. Maybe, if she never stirs again, she can keep him.
But even as she thinks the words, that thin, pleading wail begins again. It tears at her insides in a way she cannot ignore. Her baby's crying. Fin needs her. Her arms clutch Sinbad even as she knows she can't stay. She can't keep him.
"Stay," he pleads. "You promised me."
She did promise. She swore to him that she would never run. She swore it when she became his chéile, and swore it again after Scratch provoked her into panic. She vowed to remain at his side, his partner not only in this fight to save his soul, but in everything else, too. She's his now. He's hers. They're meant to stay together.
But Fin. She swore a vow to Fin, too. In conceiving her, she promised to protect her. To be the best mother she can, until she's no longer needed. That's the deal. There's no escaping it, no denying it. The thin little bleating cry tugs at her heart.
"It doesn't have to be a choice, child."
She opens her eyes. Sinbad is gone. A white rose blushed softly with pink bobs gently before her eyes.
Dim-Dim smiles.
Slowly Maeve sits up. Her master's rose garden surrounds her. The sky overhead is beautifully blue; warm sunshine dances over her skin. Everything is soft and gentle and sweet, just like her memories of the Isle of Dawn. A curious ant tickles as it climbs its way up her wrist. She shakes it off and plants her hands in the sun-warmed grass. The scent of roses hovers thick around her.
"Do you remember what I asked you to think about, the last time we spoke here?" Dim-Dim pulls at a stubborn weed threatening his precious roses. The root runs deep, and as he pulls, Maeve notices it's not white as it should be. It's black with some sort of rot, and it holds firmly to the soil, resisting her master's firm hands. With a small grunt, he finally yanks it free. The hole it leaves in the soil is deep.
"I don't remember anything," Maeve says, staring at the little old man. He looks just as he always has, wrapped in his light silver cape, his staff standing at attention next to him, despite the passage of time. But she's not interested in lessons right now. Her body aches at Sinbad's sudden disappearance, and she can still hear her baby crying, though she doesn't know how to reach her. Those tiny wails come from very far away, carried on the wind. It unnerves her to be away from both of them. It isn't right. She and Finleigh shouldn't be separated, and she wants Sinbad. "I don't know anything," she says, frustration welling inside. "Why am I here?"
"Gently, my dear," her master says, reaching for another weed. An aphid crawls across his fingertip, but ladybirds prowl his garden for just this reason. "Treat yourself gently. I warned you that learning can, at times, be painful. I'm afraid it has been for you since we spoke last. I'm very sorry for that. I wish I could have shielded you, but sometimes the only way out is through."
"Did you know all this would happen?" she demands, her eyes narrowing as she watches the old man placidly pulling weeds in his garden. "I'll never forgive you if you knew. If you let me love him, knowing I would lose." Her fingers dig into the soil.
"Oh, no, my dear," he says, and turns to her, his eyes overflowing with kindness. "The future doesn't work that way. It's something I've yet to make Sinbad understand. He thinks believing in fate negates free will, which he so desperately needs to keep faith in. But it's not like that at all."
"How not?"
"There are always choices. Everything happens for a reason, but the path is not predetermined. I knew he would love you if he allowed himself—you are exactly what he needs, but the choice was still his to make." Dim-Dim's eyes twinkle and a glimmer of a smile hovers over his mouth. "You, though—your choices I could not predict at all. My dear girl. You're a bit of a wildcard, if you'll forgive the expression. I'm sorry if you doubted me."
Maeve blinks slowly at him. That cry is going to drive her mad. Her baby is in need, and she doesn't have time for riddles. "How can you be sorry? You're not even real. I'm dreaming. I know I am." She knows the flavor of dreams well, the softness, the hazy quality of the vision. Her dreams are rarely as sweet as this, but even her nightmares lack the hard edge of the real world.
"Am I not real?" Dim-Dim asks with a small smile. "What is real, then?"
She says the first thing that comes to mind. "Sinbad. And Scratch."
"Both very real," Dim-Dim agrees. "And also not the answer you would have given me the last time we spoke."
The last time they spoke was over two years ago—a lifetime from her perspective. She's not the same person she was then. She's not the same person she was a day ago, either. "I failed, master." Her voice cracks.
"Have you?" His voice is kind. "I don't know anything about that. It seems to me that you still have time left. And a child desperately in need of both her parents."
Maeve hugs herself tightly. She feels no physical pain—yet another clue that this is just a dream. Nothing more. But the pleading cries of her newborn won't stop, and the sound wrenches at her. She has to soothe it. She has to fix this.
"I failed the Protocol."
"You did," Dim-Dim agrees. "But—forgive me for this—you were never one for rules anyway." His eyes smile kindly at her as he brushes dirt into the holes left by his weeding, healing the wounds in the soil with his bare hands.
Maeve inhales the scents of sweet summer roses and sun on lush green grass. A big part of her wants to lie back down, right where she is. To sleep in warmth and safety, surrounded by her mentor's gentle regard and the comfort of his garden. She's so tired, body and soul.
But she can't. The cry on the wind tells her so, even if Dim-Dim doesn't.
"I have to go back," she says quietly.
"You do," he agrees. "Just as Cairpra told you when Scratch caught you between worlds, you must keep going. You will lose everything if you don't. Things you can't afford to lose."
She knows. A small hitch catches her breath, but she refuses to cry. She's never been a crier in her life, not until her little stowaway brought it out in her, and now she no longer has Fin as an excuse. She's done letting tears rule her. "What if I try and I lose it all anyway?"
Dim-Dim calmly snips the stem of a blood-red rose and hands it to her. She takes it without caution, pricking her finger on a thorn. The drop that wells is the same color as the flower petals.
"Last time we spoke in this garden, I told you that to ignore your similarities with Rumina was to do yourself—and her—a great injustice. I asked you what it was you wanted. Why you were here, what you were searching for. You couldn't tell me then. Can you now?"
Maeve puts her nose to the rose in her hand and inhales its scent, staring into its velvet center. She doesn't have anything in common with Rumina, and refuses to consider that she might. "I want my family," she says, and clears her throat ruthlessly as it tightens. She's done crying. "All of them. Everyone. Maybe that's selfish, but that's what I want. Dermott. Antoine. Nessa. Sinbad. My Fin. I want everyone safe."
"I don't think that's selfish, and I don't believe anyone could fault you for it. Just consider. I told you before to think of your life as a garden. The names you just named, the people tied to those names, and the ones tied to them, populate your world with beauty and joy."
Maeve touches the petals of the rose in her hand to her lips, soft as a newborn's skin. She wants her girl, wants her desperately. That cry on the wind is driving her mad.
"And consider what it feels like to have no garden, no place to belong. What might you do? What lengths might you go to to make that feeling end?"
Maeve watches as he tears another weed free, its root system black as ink. "You mean Rumina."
"I do."
"If she's lonely, she did that to herself. By being what she is."
"By being what Turok made her," Dim-Dim corrects. "There were points in her life when she had choices, aye. When she could have chosen otherwise—been otherwise. But it would have taken a stronger bearing and hardier soul than she has. She's not a fighter like you, my child. She takes the easiest path, as most people do. That's not a fault, just a fact."
Maeve squints at the old man. "She helped Scratch steal your adopted son's soul, and you want me to feel sorry for her?"
"Feel sorry for? No. Understand, yes. The one may be impossible, considering all you've lost, all you may yet lose. The other, I believe, is crucial for your own peace moving forward. Scratch is evil and capricious because that is what he is. Rumina is otherwise."
Maeve balks. She doesn't want to understand Rumina. She doesn't want to try. All she wants is to return to the world again, to stop that poor little cry. Finleigh's calling for her, and she can't ignore that. She just can't.
"What can I do?" she begs her mentor, blinking back the tears that attempt to pool in her eyes. She accidentally squeezes the stem of the rose in her hand. It pricks deeper.
"Remember who you are," he says as she curses and drops the rose. "You've never allowed yourself to be a pawn in someone else's tale. You have always controlled the narrative. Remember."
She slips her bleeding finger into her mouth. The hot, metallic taste of blood jolts her body as it hits her tongue, and suddenly she's falling, falling, as if she tripped, but there's no solid ground beneath her. Dim-Dim and his garden disappear, and as she plummets she opens her eyes.
To her room at Breakwater, and the silent darkness before dawn.
It's Samhain. Tonight, Scratch will come to claim Sinbad's soul.
She can't let that happen.
She bites down on the finger in her mouth, only now realizing it really is there. Removing it, she examines the soft pad. A little puncture oozes slightly, and the scent of roses hovers in her nose, her lungs.
What's real?
You have always controlled the narrative.
Maeve isn't sure she believes that. She feels like she's spent so much of her life running from or reacting to events she had no control over: her father's violence, the ruin of Brí Leith, Dermott's transformation, now Sinbad's curse. She couldn't stop any of it.
But none of it stopped her, either. Is that what Dim-Dim meant?
She decides it doesn't matter. She's played nice for moons now—played by the rules of the fucking Protocol for the sake of Sinbad's soul. She's kept quiet, kept still, hidden her true feelings as best she could. No more. It didn't do her any good, and she's sick and goddamn tired of herself and her daughter being used as pawns by Scratch and Rumina. It stops now. She failed the Protocol, which means she gets to do things her way now.
Except, what does that mean?
She wishes she knew. Dim-Dim was trying to tell her, she's certain, but he likes to teach in riddles and this one is beyond her at the moment. Slowly she stretches, her body coming under her control once more. And holy fuck, that hurts. Everything hurts. Even her eyelids hurt. Even her toes hurt, and how they manage that when she hasn't been on them in ages, she doesn't know. Her back aches. Her breasts ache. When she tries to shift positions, the muscles in her gut protest loudly and revolt. Her stomach rolls and heaves and she almost vomits, but her gut literally has no power to do so. She lies still for a long moment, breathing deeply. The scent of roses clears, and instead the smell of warm, clean male skin greets her.
Sinbad is beside her.
She opens watery eyes, and there he is, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. He's dead to the world, but beautiful to her eyes nonetheless, calm in this moment of silence. And he holds something pillowed on his chest, a little form wrapped in a soft blue blanket that used to be Con's, and Lily's before that, and Duncan's before that.
Fin.
That's her Fin.
She's alive, no matter how much the Rumina in Maeve's dream taunted, sleeping peacefully on her father's bare chest, everything but her tiny face covered warmly against the cold northern night. She's not crying. The desperate little wails in Maeve's ears have ceased. She looks utterly content, safe in her father's grip, his warmth surrounding her.
And she's so beautiful. They're beautiful together, and the sight of Sinbad sleeping with his daughter cradled firmly to his chest does something to Maeve's insides. She's melting, yes, but at the same time something inside her kindles. She refuses to accept her daughter losing this. So few girls in this world get loving fathers. Hers has one, and she will not let her lose him now.
You have always controlled the narrative.
She hasn't. Dim-Dim is right about most things, but not this. Scratch and Rumina have controlled this one so far. They did this to her and once again, just as when Rumina cursed Dermott, she's going to be the one left behind if she lets it continue. She'll be left sitting in the wreckage of a shattered life, a shattered heart, trying to pick up pieces too badly damaged to ever put back together again. She knows how that story plays out.
Not this time.
This time, she has too much to lose, and someone new to fight for.
Her head spins and her gut protests the effort, but she lifts one arm and slowly, very slowly, touches her daughter's sleeping cheek with one fingertip. She's so small. So incredibly tiny. Just a little bundle of thick cotton blanket, her tiny face poking out, cheek resting over her father's heart. One minuscule hand curls near her perfect bow of a mouth. Her pink skin is so delicate, so fine, that it looks translucent in the warm glow of a wide, shallow brazier. That color is sweet and healthy, but oh, she's so small. Maeve wonders if that tiny fist can even reach around one of her father's fingers.
This is Fin. The fury Maeve felt earlier has left her fully; where it went, she doesn't know. Maybe, like a flame, it finally burned itself out. She was never angry at her daughter anyway, she realizes now. Just at the situation, the absolute unfairness of it all. Fin came two days too soon—two measly days. It wasn't her fault, or Maeve's. Maybe it always was going to play out this way, or maybe Scratch's temper tantrum hastened things along. The reason doesn't really matter now. What matters is that she's not going to let this be the end. No matter how angry she was earlier, she can't deny this child, and she can't help the way her heart melts, dripping down her ribcage, to see her curled peacefully on her father's chest. Her tiny mouth moves reflexively in her sleep, fingers reaching for her lips before desisting again.
She's perfect. She's tiny and vulnerable and absolutely perfect, and Maeve refuses to let this be the only time Sinbad ever holds his daughter. They belong together. One glance tells her everything. He adores that kid, and she deserves to grow up with her father.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she whispers, brushing her fingertip lightly along her baby's cheek. "I was scared, and upset. You know how I get, and if you don't you'll learn soon. But I won't fail you now. I'm going to save your father for you. For both of us."
At the touch of her mother's hand, Fin stirs. She turns her head, seeking warmth, seeking touch. A soft whimper leaves her mouth and her eyes blink open.
Sinbad twitches as his daughter wakes, incredibly responsive to the little life curled on his chest. Maeve flinches. No. Not yet. She can't have him waking now. He'll know that she's planning something and he'll try to stop her. She can't have that. Regretting the necessity but not her actions, she whispers a soft rhyming couplet and draws her hand gently over his eyes, sending him back into deeper sleep. His body slumps back into the bed and his breaths resume their deep, untroubled rhythm. The bracelet on his wrist flashes brightly several times before settling down.
Maeve exhales a relieved sigh. Good. He's deeply asleep, with no one the wiser. She kisses his temple softly before struggling upright. And oh, fuck, that hurts. Using her magic after so long felt incredibly satisfying, but using her body just fucking hurts. She grits her teeth and leans back cautiously against the sturdy wooden headboard. Her muscles feel like jelly, and pain fires through her body. She grits her teeth and endures it. The worst is over, she tells herself firmly. Fin is born. Her body needs to shut the fuck up now and let her get on with her life. She has too much to do, and can't waste time lying in bed any longer.
But a soft, pleading bleat from Fin stills her where she sits. Her baby blinks up at her, and Maeve is helpless to resist those eyes, that cry. She reaches out and takes her into her arms for the first time, lifting her carefully from Sinbad's chest.
"I know. I'm sorry. For everything." She tucks her close to her heart, cupping her hand around the back of that tiny head, feeling her warmth, the small weight of her. She drops her head to her daughter's and breathes her in gently. She smells clean and soft, like warm skin and Sinbad. Her lips trail along her tiny skull, and she offers a finger to grip. Fin clutches her with a strength that belies her size. "You're my tough girl, aren't you? My fierce, tough girl." She kisses each individual finger gripping her, kisses the tiny nose and mouth that seem to want to burrow into her skin. "Listen to me. Your father adores you. He loves you so much—I can see it already. I'm going to save him for you, okay? Because you deserve the best, and that's what he is."
How she's going to do that, however, is a question she doesn't know how to answer yet.
"I don't know how to explain what happened earlier. All I can say is that I'm sorry. Once I free your father from Scratch, I promise I'll never leave you again."
Fin's eyes blink open as she cradles her. Maeve's heart slams against her ribs. She knows those eyes, knows that face. She eases the baby down to cradle her in her arms. This is the child Scratch tried to hide from her in the darkness, the child he stole and ordered her to leave behind. She refused to put her down then, despite not knowing she was hers. She refuses just as firmly now.
"You're mine now, beautiful girl," she says, pressing her lips to her baby's face. Fin's hand touches her cheek, light as the kiss of wind-tossed feathers. "No more darkness. No more fear. We just need to figure out how to defeat Scratch so your father gets to stay with us. I refuse to let anyone take him away from you."
Her daughter whimpers softly and begins to root, a movement Maeve is very familiar with from her nieces and nephews.
"Okay. I know. You eat. I'll think." She loosens the laces at the front of the lambskin robe Keely and Wren put her back in last night. She doesn't need the added warmth with Sinbad beside her and the large brazier near the bed, but she was in no shape to protest before Keely cast a sleep on her. She can feel the flavor of the darkness, the stillness of the house, and knows it's early morning again, not yet dawn but no longer night. Part of her can't quite believe that just a day ago she woke in terror to Scratch tearing the house down around her. According to Keely, she was already in labor at that point. Now her daughter lies safe in her arms, hungry and intent on the nipple she offers. It's not how she wanted this to happen, but she can't do anything about that now. All she can do is her best moving forward.
You have always controlled the narrative.
Watching her sisters nurse their babies and nursing one herself are not the same thing, she quickly learns, but after a few false starts Fin relaxes in her hold and she feels milk flowing. It feels strange and not entirely comfortable, but Fin is happy so it doesn't matter. Her daughter's aura is blissful, and it calms some of the restlessness in Maeve, too. "Has Wren fed you already?" She brushes a finger across her baby's cheek. "No more. You're mine." Keely and Wren happily share feeding duties when they can, but Maeve isn't interested. This is her daughter, and her job.
Fin's sweet blue eyes flick up at her, blissful and soft, and fuck, there goes her heart again. She hopes they'll stay that color. Wren's boys all had blue eyes at birth that turned swiftly brown; Mia was born with her mother's eyes, Lily with her father's. Maeve hopes Fin's blue eyes don't change. They look just like Sinbad's, and she loves them.
"You have my heart, little girl," she says. "Now if we can just figure out how to keep your father." She stretches her body slowly, her muscles protesting every movement. Deep under the blankets, near the end of the bed, her toes hit something hard. She frowns, and shifts her foot until she can work the foreign object up her leg to where her hand can grasp it. As her fingers close over the cool leather, she realizes what it is. The book Sinbad brought down from the library days ago, full of indignation about its contents. Rory's favorite fireside tale, the story of Étaín and her demigod lover, Midir.
Maeve sets the book gently at her side, staring at Rory's dirty handprint smudged across the cover. The door to Midir's domain is said to be under the hill at Brí Leith, where the ruins of the library lie quiet, full of ghosts never put to rest. Maeve swore she would never return there. She left that place long ago, one hand in Dermott's, the other in Keely's, and slammed the door on the past. Keely did not. The door opens for her, and she walks in and out as she pleases, whenever she has need. It's never been that easy for Maeve.
But she's going to need help to free Sinbad from Scratch's hold. Her family can't do anything more. Dim-Dim is lost. The council has already given her all the knowledge they have. Their human and sìthiche networks have been tapped; no one on this earth can do any more. That means she's going to have to travel off the edges of the map to find aid this time.
"No falling asleep on me." Maeve shifts her daughter from her breast to her shoulder and rubs her back gently. Going back to Brí Leith is the last thing she ever thought she'd do, but for Sinbad's sake, she'll consider it. There are mounds all over Eire, but this is the only one she knows the specific location of. The only one she's sure she can reach without getting lost. She knows that hill and its forest like she knows each plane and angle of Sinbad's face, the terrain of each etched deeply upon her heart.
Letting Finleigh out of her arms feels like tearing a piece of herself loose, but she settles her daughter gently on Sinbad's chest once more. The room is warm with the heat of the brazier, and she'll come to no harm while in her father's protection. He shifts in his ensorcelled sleep, one hand rising to rest against his child as Maeve settles her.
"You keep him safe for me, tough girl," she says, kissing her sleeping daughter one last time before tossing her legs over the side of the bed.
Her legs don't want to work, and she can't blame them. She's beyond tired, and she hasn't been upright in ages. Her poor body doesn't know what she wants anymore. But she's out of time; she can't wait. She dresses as swiftly as she can, packing her smallclothes with linen rags because she's still bleeding. Her head spins and she nearly passes out as she belts her sword at her side, but she grits her teeth and breathes through it. She has no choice.
When she's fully dressed, she drinks some water left on her desk. There's no food, but she's not sure her belly would accept it anyway. Her throat hurts, and she knows her voice will be hoarse and scratchy when she tries to speak above a murmur. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. She finds the large book on her desk she needs, the one she and Cairpra have been studying from, and touches a light globe to give her a little more illumination as she searches for the page she wants.
Behind her, the door creaks open. Maeve whirls, and only just manages to stop Cara from screaming.
"Hush," she soothes. "It's okay. It's fine. It's just me."
The little apprentice's face is white. She swallows nervously. "I'm supposed to check on the baby. Keely wouldn't want you up."
"Fin's born. It's fine now." It's not—she lost a lot of blood, and she can feel it. Her heart labors hard, so hard it's a little painful, and her limbs are flaccid and weak. She's still bleeding, too, though that's a minor discomfort compared to the lingering pain of her body. Keely would absolutely scream in her face for being upright, and would tackle her to the ground if she knew what Maeve was planning.
"I don't know," Cara whispers. She casts a glance at the bed where Sinbad sleeps soundly, Fin cradled firmly on his chest. Can she tell a sleep has been cast? Maeve doubts it. Cara has a lot of natural potential, but she's only just begun her training.
And right now, she's exactly the person Maeve needs. "Listen. I need your help. My opal bracelet—do you know where it is? My sister put it away somewhere."
"She hid it," Cara whispers. "I'm not supposed to tell you."
Maeve scowls. She'd assumed Cara would be an easy mark, but she may have miscalculated the kid's allegiance to Keely. Or her fear of her. "Look, kid, I don't have time to argue about this. I have until nightfall to break Scratch's hold on Sinbad's soul. I've got a lot to do in that time, so I've got to get going."
Cara's eyes grow wide, even the unseeing one gaping at her. "You can't go! You just had a baby!"
"No shit," Maeve mutters, turning a page in the huge tome she and Cairpra have been studying. "Just so you know, I don't recommend it. It's not fun. And it's not going to stop me from doing what I do. I may be a mother now, but I'm still a warrior and a sorceress. That will not change."
"But you'll kill yourself," Cara pleads softly. "And Keely will yell."
Maeve has to fight back a weary smile, though she's not really amused. She draws herself up to her full, impressive height, pain exploding in her gut as she does. "I'm scarier than she is," she says, stepping close to the little apprentice. She feels only a little bad when Cara backs away a quick step. She'll make it up to her later, if she gets the chance. Right now, she doesn't have time to waste cajoling her. "Who's the sorceress here?"
"You are," Cara gulps. She's trembling now.
"That's right. And there's evil sorcery that needs breaking. That's my job. Keely can't keep me from it forever, no matter how much she tries. Go get my opal. No more arguments."
Cara disappears swiftly through the door.
Maeve turns back to her book. A plan is slowly forming in her head. It's a desperate one, which suits her mood perfectly. She'll risk anything—everything—to save Sinbad's soul. Her daughter deserves to keep her father, and Scratch and Rumina don't get to win this time. She refuses to let them. But in leaving on this quest, she's breaking multiple vows. Vows she made to Sinbad, to Cairpra, to Fin. Maybe even to Dim-Dim. She hates this, but she's not sure she has another choice. Not unless she wants to let Scratch claim Sinbad's soul without a fight.
You have always controlled the narrative.
She hasn't. But she is now. No more fireside tales. Or, rather, she's going to write her own.
"How dare you?" Cairpra's whisper is full of reproach. How she manages to fit so much outrage into a whisper, Maeve doesn't know. She flinches and turns cautiously toward her mentor. Her head spins, but her knees hold. "How dare you bully that poor child into disobeying her mistress? You know full well your sister will be furious when she finds out you've left."
Maeve drops her head. She's sorry, truly. But Cairpra has to understand. "I have to go."
"I know that perfectly well." Her mentor's stern visage remains uncompromising. "But you needn't traumatize that sweet child in the meanwhile. You and your siblings are used to shoving each other around like a half-grown wolf pack, metaphorically speaking. That girl is a baby rabbit in comparison, and I've grown quite fond of her. Leaving her to bear the brunt of Keely's wrath is unconscionable. That's what I'm here for." She holds out Maeve's bracelet wordlessly.
Maeve freezes, stunned. "You're not going to argue with me?"
"No."
"Why not?" She takes her bracelet hesitantly, suddenly suspicious. Every other person in this house would very willingly tie her up to keep her from leaving right now, even the children. She assumed Cairpra felt the same. She should feel the same. What Maeve plans to do is utter stupidity.
"You are an adult, though young and in many ways still untested. I have no right to stop you. And that child needs her father." Cairpra casts a significant look at the bed, where Sinbad sleeps peacefully through their whispered argument, Fin cradled close to his heart. "That sleep you cast was quite good. Subtle, not heavy-handed. Better than the one your sister laid on you."
"Keely wasn't going for subtle," Maeve mutters.
"Yes, well, you would likely have thrown off any attempts at subtlety. You were quite upset."
"I still am. Just thinking more clearly." Maeve checks the motion of her sword in its sheath. It feels ridiculously good to have that weight at her hip once again, no matter how much she hurts.
"Are you?" Cairpra eyes her critically.
"Yes."
You control the narrative.
Maeve lets a small smile touch the corners of her mouth at the subtle shift in Dim-Dim's refrain. Yes. This is her story now.
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm Sinbad's champion. Without Scratch and Rumina's meddling, I would have challenged for his soul tonight. I believe it's still my right to do so. They didn't play fair." She closes the book on her desk with a snap.
"And how will you claim that right?" Cairpra asks calmly. "You no longer carry his child. Scratch won't allow it, and I did warn you that a magical protocol must be followed precisely. Disastrous consequences may occur otherwise."
Maeve knows, and she doesn't care. There's nothing more disastrous in her eyes than losing Sinbad. She holds up the little book with Rory's dirty handprint on the cover. "I'm going to appeal to a higher power."
Cairpra considers this without immediately sounding the alarm, which is a better response than Maeve feared. "You must be very careful, my girl. Entities such as the Tuatha dé Danann can't be trusted. They are not cruel for cruelty's sake, as Scratch is, but they are whimsical and capricious. They wound as the wind does, without malice but also without sympathy."
"Considering what the wind just did to this island, I'm willing to take my chances," Maeve says dryly.
"They often exact payment for their services as well. Are you prepared for that?"
Maeve inhales slowly. "I am."
Finleigh's cry pierces the soft darkness. It's bright and loud and angry, and Maeve jolts. Even under her spell, Sinbad stirs. She strides quickly to the edge of the bed and lifts her daughter once more, curling her arms around her. "Hey, stop that." She draws her to her chest. "Did you have a bad dream? I can't have you waking everyone up now."
Fin fusses crankily against Maeve's shoulder. Sinbad settles, but the baby does not. Maeve twists her body side to side, rocking her newborn slowly.
"I think she's trying to tell you something."
Maeve raises her eyes to her mentor. "I can't stay. I can't."
"Neither is that the only option I see. Do you remember what I told you, when I found you in the darkness between worlds?"
Maeve snorts. "Not to travel without training again."
"There is that. Why do you think we've been studying so hard?" Cairpra's voice is bland. "I also told you never to let that child go."
Maeve hesitates. She doesn't want to. She wants to wrap Fin up close to her heart and never let go again. They shared the same body for so long, and it feels incredibly strange now to be two separate people, two separate bodies. But she's deliberately walking into serious danger—quite possibly into hell itself to face the most dangerous demon of them all. "I can't," she says firmly. "She's not even a day old. She's safe here. Besides, I can't take her from Sinbad." He's going to wake up soon. He may forgive her for breaking her vow and leaving him, but he won't forgive her for taking his baby away, too. Especially when she can't guarantee he'll ever see either of them again.
Fin squalls loudly, her little hand fisting a curl of Maeve's copper hair and holding on with the reflexive grip of a newborn.
"Ow!" Curses slip from Maeve's mouth, just barely kept at a whisper.
"You are a mother now, are you not?" Cairpra's murmur holds a wealth of dry amusement. "Where you go, she goes."
"Yes," Maeve says tightly as she carefully unwraps her daughter's hand from her hair and gives her a finger to clutch instead. "But I didn't think that translated to desperate, life-in-the-balance quests, too."
Fin howls.
"Okay, okay! I get it!" She slips her finger in her daughter's mouth, which quiets her for the moment. A huge part of her still very much wants to refuse. Finleigh has a clan here to look after her; taking her away from that is monumentally risky and stupid. But she's not sure Fin's going to let her slip away. If she puts her back down, she's going to raise hell and wake Sinbad—wake the house. "You want to fight for your da too, huh?" Maeve guesses it's her right. She was literally made for this purpose, conceived for this fight.
Wordlessly, Cairpra holds out the soft leather sling Wren and Keely have both used to secure their newborns to their bodies. Maeve glares. "Sinbad is going to kill me." She lets Cairpra knot the leather around her neck and shoulder.
"You won't let any harm come to her. If you think about it, taking the child increases your likelihood of coming back. You won't take unnecessary risks this way."
Maeve settles Finleigh in the sling and Cairpra tightens it until she's cradled snugly in a comfortable position at her chest. As if she knows she's won the right to stay with her mother, Fin settles immediately.
"Is it really good to start letting her have her way so soon?"
"I think," Cairpra says, pressing a gentle kiss to Maeve's cheek, "in this case, let's call it fate."
Maeve sighs. She's exhausted already, and she hasn't even left yet. "If I'm taking her with me, I'm going to need help."
"You needed help anyway. No one should face a demigod alone. Though, if you do win the right to battle Scratch, that you will have to do on your own."
"I know." All she wants is the chance. She's Sinbad's rightful champion, no matter when Fin was born. She just needs a little help claiming that right. "But no one here can come with me to Brí Leith. I need someone who won't keep harping at me to turn back. Someone who cares more about Sinbad than they do about me."
Cairpra touches her hand in a final farewell. "I think you already know who you need."
Yes, she does. And Sinbad is going to be furious when he finds out.