The Gift

by LucyO'Gara

Someone sold Sinbad's soul to the devil. M/S.

44. Chapter 44

A/N: *cough* I MAY have gone on Ebay last week and bought the issue of Playgirl with ZG's interview. I was a kid in the 90s and I knew what Playgirl was, but I honestly was not prepared for just how much vintage dick was flopping around those pages.

The Gift

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply

---

"Here you go."

Shirez presses her palms flat against a pale stone in the blank wall in front of her, leaning her weight into the motion. The stone gives, depressing back, and a section of wall slides aside. It's not a very big opening, but it's enough for Shirez to slip through. Doubar sucks in his belly as much as he can and follows.

"Still think you can turn prisoners into an army?" The girl's voice is dry as dust.

Doubar stares at the chamber before him. Shirez said she could get him into the dungeon without anyone the wiser, and she kept her promise. They traversed most of the distance to the dungeon through winding tunnels secreted within the walls of the castle, not the open corridors where the guards haphazardly patrol. How she knows about the secret passages within Rongar's home Doubar doesn't know, but he guesses a woman in her situation likely knows a lot more than she ever lets on.

Even before he turns his eyes to the room, Doubar knows she's brought him to the dungeon. His nose is very familiar with that stink. He's been held captive more times than he cares to remember, and nothing can erase that odor from his memory, the reek of too many bitter men packed into too small a space, forced to live on top of one another without regard for sanitation or human dignity. The huge chamber holds so many weary bodies that he has to be careful where he sets his feet as he stares into the dripping, murky darkness. He smells unwashed men and sickness, rats and mold and rot, and under it all, softer but still very much present, the sick-sweet reek of death.

Whatever drainage system the castle has can't cope with the night's deluge. The stone walls are wet, water leaking through the air vents near the ceiling and leaking from the darkness overhead. Saturated, filthy straw squelches underfoot.

"Well, brother-of-Sinbad?" Shirez sets her hands on her hips. He'd think she was mocking him, but there's no humor in the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head. "What say you now?"

He stares once more into the crowd. The room is vast but nearly silent as the men sitting and standing in their cramped quarters stare dully at him, at Shirez. These are the hope for their land's rescue—Rongar and Firouz's rescue. On first glance, at least, it looks as if Shirez is right. They're broken. He can see it in their eyes. They blink at him, but they offer no resistance to his sudden appearance in their midst. No one rushes the door in the wall. No one even ogles the wet concubine in sheer, dripping silk beside him, at least not that he can tell. They've lost these basic drives, even for self-preservation it seems. There's an open door, and no one's moving.

But these are the men he has to work with. He can't reject them; they're all he has.

"Where are the women?"

"Next door. No fraternizing allowed. You think the prince wants the numbers in here to multiply? He's killing as many as he can through sickness and starvation as it is."

Right. Doubar feels a headache coming on.

"Shut that door," a voice says. It's soft, but rings with authority. Sinbad often speaks with a similar tone, and the familiarity puts Doubar at ease. He peers into the murk of the vast dungeon as a small, dark man with threads of silver in his beard detaches from the shadows and steps close. "The guards don't know about it, and I don't want that to change."

Doubar willingly pulls the section of wall closed again. "You knew the secret door was there? Why are any of you still here?" he demands.

"What good is escape if we've no way to knock Ali Rashid from his perch?" the older man counters. "If we run but he stays, we'll be back in here before a full day passes. Or face worse punishment." He stands amid the crowd of his fellows, calm as he surveys the two newcomers. "Who are you? Shirez I know, though it's been a while." He offers her a politely droll little smile.

"I've been occupied."

"I heard. The torture chamber lies on the other side of that wall, and screams carry even through stone. What did you do this time?"

"Does it matter?"

He inclines his head to her, accepting her answer. "Fair enough. The man?"

"Says he's the brother of Sinbad the sailor." She glances at Doubar, but he can't read the expression in her dark eyes. He's never been good at reading people the way Sinbad is, especially women. "He also says the deposed prince Rongar is here."

The prisoner lifts his head. Bright black eyes stare intently at Doubar. "The prince is here?"

Doubar hesitates. He's not at all sure he should be doing this without Rongar's knowledge—Zorah's knowledge. He's not a strategist, as he keeps trying to tell everyone. He's not good at organizing and implementing plans. But fate put him in this position, as he's the only one of his friends free to move around the castle complex. Most are locked up, and Zorah is too well-known to go skulking around unless she bribes guards to look the other way. Shirez is currently willing to help him but Doubar knows she might change her mind at any moment, in which case he'd lose access to the inside of the palace, the maze of secret passages, and the prisoners currently before him. He's fairly sure Rongar is going to need these men, and even if he doesn't, these prisoners represent a large chunk of the population, people they can't just abandon to their fate. That's not how the crew of the Nomad operates. Therefore, Doubar has to make the most of this opportunity. His self-doubt doesn't matter. Rongar needs him.

"Rongar is here," Doubar says. He's still very aware that the man before him is a stranger, and he doesn't know where his loyalties lie. Ali Rashid is paranoid, and it wouldn't surprise Doubar if he had informants among the prisoners. But the rest of the captives seem to accept this man as their leader, and Shirez knows him. She trusts him as much as she trust anyone—which isn't much, Doubar acknowledges, but he'll take what he can get. "Ali Rashid has him locked up outside. He and Rumina laid a trap for my brother, but Sinbad isn't here. They won't believe it, though."

"Ali Rashid believes little, unless it comes from the mouth of one of his cronies. He even doubts Zorah at times, despite her gift." The prisoner waves this away. "Rongar is here? Truly? You've seen him?"
"Seen him, spoken to him," Doubar confirms. "I would have broken him out, but he said not to until we have a plan."

The man's eyes gleam bright. Hope transforms his face, and he suddenly looks ten years younger. "I always kept faith that our prince would return to us, no matter what Ali Rashid did to him."

Doubar is not good at keeping his mouth shut, but in this case he's smart enough not to respond. Rongar didn't return with the intention of overthrowing Ali Rashid—at least not today. But this isn't the time or the place to say so. Besides, he knows his crewmate. Rongar would never just abandon his people. This confrontation was inevitable. Rongar easily forgives wrongs done to himself, but not to those he cares for and these are his people.

"I am Nasir," the man says, extending his hand to Doubar. His arms are thin as rails, his body sunken with the weight of several years spent crammed in a dungeon with little food and less light, but his face sets in an expression of joyful determination. "I was senior advisor to Prince Rongar before Ali Rashid took control, and Rongar's father before him." He inclines his head respectfully. "I am very pleased to meet the brother of the legendary Sinbad the sailor, and a friend to our lost prince."

Doubar takes his hand. "Doubar," he says, and does nothing to contradict the man about being Sinbad's brother. He stubbornly refuses to relinquish this title, no matter how much Sinbad tries to deny him. He's sorry for what he did and he'll spent the rest of his days trying to make it right, but he can't admit the loss of this bond. Not that it truly matters at the moment. Sinbad isn't here. The legends of his crew, the infamy of his name, may help to motivate these men, but that's the extent to which he's useful right now. This isn't his fight. It's Rongar's.

Nasir's hand is steady in Doubar's, his grip strong despite the state of his body, the silver threads in his beard. Despair aged him prematurely; Doubar knows the feeling. He himself feels as if he's aged years in the time since Sinbad broke his face and abandoned him.

"You're Zainab's father." He studies the man's face. He's not great at noticing family resemblances, and he's not sure he sees much between his new little friend in the city and the man standing before him.

Nasir's hand clamps down hard in Doubar's grasp. "You've seen my girl?" His mouth tenses beneath his bushy beard and he refuses to let go. "Where is she? How is she? Well?"

"She's fine," Doubar says swiftly, eager to allay the man's fears. He desperately hopes Nasir doesn't ask about the rest of his family. It's not Doubar's place to tell him that his wife is dead, his son lost, and he does not want this task. "She's a spunky kid. Fearless."

"Yes." Nasir finally releases his hand. He looks suddenly weary, his shoulders slumping as if all the power has left him, curling inward like paper exposed to too much moisture. "She's my little spark. I named her after the Prophet's daughter, but she's always chosen her own path." He blinks several times and inhales a quick, deep breath, his skinny chest expanding visibly under the tatters of his shirt. "I know my wife is gone; you don't have to be afraid to tell me. Messages from the outside still get through sometimes, no matter how much Ali Rashid tries to stop them." He blinks slowly, like a dreamer roused too swiftly from sleep. "I couldn't believe when I first received word. Not that Reina was dead—so many people died, and continue to die. But that my brother gave mercy to my son but withheld it from my girl. Left her alone with no one and nothing." A ragged breath takes him. "She didn't deserve that."

No one does. "Zorah has been looking out for her."

"I know, and I'm grateful that someone is. Does Zorah know that Rongar is back?" Nasir hesitates. "I don't know how much you know, but it may be best that she doesn't find out."

"Too late. But she's sorry for her part in what happened before. She's trying to make amends. It's none of my business. Rongar forgives her, and I follow him."

Nasir inclines his head again, accepting this answer. "All is well, then. Now that the rightful prince is here."

Is it? Doubar isn't sure. These men all seem to have been waiting for Rongar's return, but that doesn't mean everything is suddenly peachy. They need a plan, which they don't have. They have Rongar, and this mass of bedraggled humanity, but no weapons, and Ali Rashid has the tactical advantage. The prisoners watch Nasir, waiting for their leader's next move, his decree.

"You set great store by this Rongar," Shirez says, crossing her arms over her chest as she surveys the stinking, dimly lit room.

"Yes," Nasir agrees. "He is a good man, and a capable leader."

"How capable can he be if he allowed someone else to take over his kingdom so easily?"

Nasir smiles, but the gesture holds no warmth as he recalls a time Doubar suspects he'd prefer to forget. "Easily? No. Ali Rashid says he's never faced a more difficult challenge than Rongar, and he only won through Zorah's treachery. Rongar fought, and I fought at his side, watched in despair as more and more guardsmen and advisors folded, persuaded by Ali Rashid's money and lies or the blades of his mercenary army. Eventually it was just he and I left. We lost, yes, but that says nothing about his capability. He simply refused to fight as ruthlessly as Ali Rashid. Rongar cared about collateral damage, the lives of his people. Ali Rashid does not."

Shirez still looks skeptical. "And where did it get him?" she demands scornfully. "Locked in the prince's menagerie, I hear, near the freaks Ali Rashid is going to kill if he's not careful. Some rescuer your lost prince turned out to be."

Doubar struggles to hold his tongue. They didn't know what they were walking into, and they didn't come here intending to rescue anybody at all, anyway, not even Dermott. They only wanted answers from Zorah. As so often happens with them, things just...got really out of hand. "I can take care of that cage," he says, shrugging away this argument. A little lock like that is no impediment to him. "But we need a plan first. Rongar and Zorah both insist. Those 'freaks' are people, and under our protection." This is non-negotiable. Antoine and Nessa are Maeve's people, her claimed kin, which means they're the Nomad crew's responsibility. Even if they weren't, Zorah would likely refuse to leave them to their fate, so either way, they have to figure out how to overthrow Ali Rashid and Rumina without putting the fairies in danger.

"What freaks?" Nasir frowns at Shirez, his bushy eyebrows drawing together. "I know the man planned a menagerie; he was drawing up plans even before he threw me in here. Don't tell me he's started collecting dwarfs and the like, too? Two-headed children? Tossed them in cages?"

"No dwarfs yet, though that may only be because they're not rare enough for his tastes." Shirez pulls her wet hair over her shoulder and begins combing her fingers through the snarled strands. "He and his witch caught a fairy. Don't ask me how; I didn't think they existed outside of stories. He was spellbound, fascinated with her. He put her in the harem for a while, but the iron shackles he put on her nearly ate through her wrists."

"Fool of a man," Nasir says bitterly, "intent on keeping something that wasn't meant to be kept. Didn't he know iron poisons them? Surely he's heard the old stories?"

Shirez shrugs. "I don't know what he knew. His witch said it was the only way to hold her, that she could disappear into thin air if she wasn't exposed to enough cold iron. Ali Rashid insisted he didn't want damaged merchandise, so he unchained her but threw her in one of the empty iron cages instead. Then it was whispered he'd captured a male, too, but I never saw. We're not allowed outside."

"Not that you ever listen," Nasir says, an ironic smile touching his mouth.

Shirez ignores him. "I've never heard of a male fairy before. The girl was beautiful—prettier than me. Prettier than any human woman I've known. I wonder if the man is, too?" She looks at Doubar speculatively. "Do you know, brother-of-Sinbad? Did you see him?"

Doubar doesn't know. He's never been good at judging these things. "They're sick, girl. Near death. I think Zorah's magic's the only thing keeping them alive. That's not pretty, no matter who it happens to."

"And how would there be any fairy babies without any fairy men?" Nasir looks slightly amused.

"How should I know?" Shirez shoots him a dark look. "I didn't think there were fairies at all. They're born from shafts of morning sunlight in some stories, from the pits of hell in others. Makes no difference to me. Nor do the lives of two prisoners, one way or another."

"They do to us," Doubar says firmly. This is not up for debate. It's only fitting, considering that Maeve's people are sheltering and caring for her and Sinbad right now. The least the Nomad crew can do is the same for her kin.

"So I've gathered." Shirez's voice holds no emotion. Doubar watches her cautiously. She's been helpful thus far, but she's dragged her feet at every step and he's unsure where her loyalty lies. He'd prefer a more trustworthy ally beside him, but beggars can't be choosers and she's the only one in a position to sneak him around the palace.

"Is there a plan, Doubar?" Nasir asks, hugging his arms to his thin chest. The humidity has lessened here in the chilly dungeon, but only because water drips down the walls and leaks from the ceiling instead of hovering in the heavy air.

"No," Doubar admits. "There usually isn't, with us. We kind of tend to wing things, but I don't think that's going to work this time."

"Not with Ali Rashid," Nasir agrees. "He is not your usual brigand or warlord. He's intelligent, and highly vindictive. He'll raze this kingdom before he allows Rongar to take it back. And I admit, though I know he acquired a witch recently, I don't know anything about her."

"I do," Doubar says darkly, "and I wish I didn't. She's dangerous, man. I don't know if I'd call her overly smart, but she's kept us at bay for years, so she can't be stupid. She's powerful, and she enjoys seeing others in pain. Playing with them."

"A dangerous combination," Nasir agrees. "How did she come to belong to Ali Rashid?"

"I don't think she does," Doubar says. "I don't think she'd stand for that. But he has something she wants. Something about a sword of his—Zorah explained but I'm not the quickest." His face flushes; he does not like admitting to this, but what else can he do? It's the truth, whether he wants to believe it or not. Sinbad's always been the smart one, he's always been the strong one. They worked seamlessly as a pair, a team...until they didn't.

"The sword of Imra," Nasir says. He looks grave. "It is a legendary weapon, a sword of flame, invincible in battle. Zorah was its protector, but she gave Ali Rashid the necessary incantations to retrieve it from its refuge. Now he wields its power."

Lovely. Just perfect. Doubar knows the blade must be powerful if Rumina wants it, but he didn't realize quite how formidable a weapon they were dealing with. "We can't have our enemy running around with a weapon like that," he says. As the words leave his mouth, he feels an upwelling of both dread and certainty: this is his task. This is the thing he can do that no one else can. Ali Rashid is Rongar's to fight, but Doubar cannot allow his silent brother to face this foe and this weapon. He can't free these prisoners and begin an uprising without releasing his friends and warning Zorah, but he can steal that sword. "Where does he keep it?" His voice grates out of him, dark with certainty. This is his task, his contribution.

Nasir looks to Shirez.

"What makes you think I know?" She folds her arms over her barely-clothed chest and glares back sullenly.

"Because you know everything that transpires in this place, little flower," the former diplomat says, bowing graciously to her. "You and your sisters, all. I may be a man, but I am not stupid. I know perfectly well that, no matter how secluded Ali Rashid attempts to keep you, his harem knows more than every spy he employs combined."

"They are not my sisters," she growls, "and trying to steal that sword is suicide. I'm not afraid of Ali Rashid, but I am afraid of that blade. I have no wish to die on it."

"Just lead me," Doubar urges. She's not the steadfast ally he wishes he had, but she's the only one who can take him to the sword. "You don't have to touch it. You don't have to do anything else. I'll steal it myself. Please." He has a disguise these idiots don't seem to question. He's willing to risk it.

"Once Ali Rashid is disarmed, these men will feel safer," Nasir says, nodding to the sea of prisoners clustered around them. "We can use the secret passage to get to the armory and arm ourselves."

"And I can free Rongar and the others," Doubar says. "Then you'll have an army, and a leader. Your enemy will still have his mercenaries, but not his magic sword."

"I won't do it." Shirez sets her jaw, an expression of hard truculence Doubar is very used to seeing on Maeve's face. She means it. "I'd be taking you to your death, and mine as well. Ali Rashid and his witch are nervous. They have most of his men searching the city for your brother. They're on their guard since discovering Rongar and Sinbad continuing to elude them."

"He's not here! How many times do I have to say it?"

"They don't believe it, so the truth doesn't matter!" She stamps her foot childishly. Doubar just barely manages not to laugh at her. She may be a slave, but in some ways she's a very pampered one. For all Maeve's temper, she would never throw a tantrum quite like that, never expect to stomp her foot and get her own way.

"Sinbad isn't here," he repeats instead, lowering his voice despite his frustration. He's never been good at quashing his temper, but yelling at this girl won't get him what he needs from her. She has no reason to continue to help him, and he realizes that. The lure of freedom isn't enough, not when he can't guarantee it. "But I am. I'm not a hero, but I'm here. And I'm trying. If most of Ali Rashid's men are searching the town instead of patrolling the palace, it's the perfect time to strike. We don't have time to sit and think, we have to move before the opportunity passes."

Shirez considers this, chewing roughly on her lower lip. It's such a pretty lip and he wishes she wouldn't. Poor thing. The raw rope burns on her wrists stand out starkly against her olive skin, and while he can't see them at this angle he knows the welts on her back must hurt badly. She has no padding as he does to cushion the blows. He can see in her eyes how tired she is, how much she does not want to do this. She hates Ali Rashid, but she does not want the risk that comes with rebellion. She'll willingly irritate her master and die the death of an unfaithful woman, but she has no wish to be tortured as a traitor.

"What choice do you have, really?" he asks as gently as he can. "If you go back to him like this, nearly unmarked, he'll know you escaped your punishment. The guards will tell him, if they haven't already. What will he do to you then?"

Her black eyes snap resentfully at him as she considers her options, not that she has many. The stubborn set of her face tells Doubar plainly that she's willing to at least entertain this scenario. What Ali Rashid will do to her for evading punishment is likely better than dying a traitor's agonizing death.

"What do you want, child?" Nasir asks softly. "Rongar will grant it, once we rid ourselves of this tyrant. I know you don't know the rightful prince, but I do, and I will vouch for this. Do you wish freedom? Your own land to work? Or a quiet life in the palace, a lady's life, left in peace? He'll give it. He won't expect you to service him, as Ali Rashid does. He'll find you a good husband, if that is what you desire, or allow you to live on your own. Whatever you wish in return for your help, he will grant."

"Or do you want to go home?" Doubar asks. "You said your father sold you, so maybe not. But I know two ships here in Bollnah that would gladly give you passage anywhere you wanted, anywhere in the world."

"Home?" The word tears from her lungs on a startled breath. Her eyes blink at him, uncomprehending, as if this is a concept she's never before contemplated.

"Home. Yes. Wherever that is. Or anywhere else you want—anywhere at all."

"I—" Her voice fails, her words driving abruptly to a halt.

"Where is your home?" Doubar feels sudden, deep sympathy for her. He knows where home is. It's Baghdad, and in a larger sense, wherever his family is—wherever Sinbad is. The Nomad is his home, the sea. He goes where he pleases, returns to familiar shores when he wishes. This girl has never had that luxury. Has she ever even seen a map? Does she even know where the hell she is? Where her family is?

"I don't...I don't know." He watches the movement in her throat as she swallows. She really is a pretty thing; he's not surprised Ali Rashid wanted her. But she's proved tonight that she's more than just a lovely object, which is something he's willing to bet Ali Rashid doesn't know. It may be the man's downfall, if they can convince her to help them. "It's far, Doubar," she says, using his name for the first time.

"I don't doubt it. I don't recognize your accent, and I've been everywhere."

"I sailed with traders through Constantinople," she says, delicate lines appearing between her brows as she frowns. "We passed Athens. I was sold on in Tunis. I don't know more than that."

Doubar hurts for her. She's not a warm person, colder than Maeve and more calculating than Talia, but that's not her fault. She is what men have made her. And no one deserves what he sees in her eyes now. The concept of home and the possibility of return are utterly foreign to her, beyond her comprehension.

"No," she says finally, banishing the idea firmly with a decisive jerk of her head. "No. I don't know where I came from, and even if I found my people, my father would just sell me again. He had two daughters, and for him that was two too many. Why would I go back to that?"

Doubar inclines his head to her gently. There's no reason he can see, if she fears her father more than she wants to be reunited with the other people she left behind. "Not every man in this world is a monster," he says gently, though he has no real proof he can offer her. Not after the life she's led.

The scathing glance she gives him cuts worse than Maeve's ever did. But then, he's fairly sure Maeve never hated him. Not until the end. "Meaning you?" she says, voice dripping with scorn.

"Meaning Rongar." Not himself. Not anymore. Firouz may still believe he's a good man, but Doubar is having trouble believing it. He was wrong about Maeve, acted on impulse, and hurt his family possibly beyond repair. Good men don't do that. "Meaning my brother, and the rest of his crew. Meaning Nasir, here, if what Zorah says about him is to be believed. Shirez, I want to help. But Rongar will never win this battle if Ali Rashid has that sword. You know that. And I will never find it in this palace without a guide."

The girl stands still for a long moment, locked in a silent battle of indecision. Doubar can see it. She's scared, and she's used to living a life of self-preservation. She's not a hero at heart, and she resents being put in this position. But when she heaves a sigh that deflates her, he can tell that she's going to do it. For a moment, he swears that he's in love. Not with her beauty, but with her bravery despite her situation.

"I must be as crazy as the rest of you," she mutters, scowling at the floor. She's not happy, but Doubar feels a rush of jubilant adrenaline flood his veins. She doesn't have to be happy, so long as she takes him to the sword. Once this is all over, she'll see that she picked the right side. Rongar will grant her whatever future she wishes, and she'll see that life can be good.

"Not crazy," Nasir says, smiling with understanding. "That feeling? That's called hope."

"It's called suicide," she grumbles.

"You'll want to get out of the palace as quickly as possible once you have the sword." Nasir's smile fades as he turns to Doubar. "Give us a sign. Send one of the other women from the harem; they all hate Ali Rashid, and they can be trusted. They bring us food and medicine through the secret tunnels when they can. Once we hear from you, we'll rush the armory. This fight may begin with skulking through tunnels, but it will end with Rongar returned in the open to his throne."

"I will get the sword to Rongar or Zorah," Doubar vows. This is his quest now. He'll join the battle once it begins, but it can't start until he steals that blade. "Zorah will need to cast her spell on the fairies so the effects of the iron poisoning are temporarily diminished. We'll have to hurry to get them to safety while Rongar deals with Ali Rashid."

"Probably best to hide them on your ship, then," Nasir agrees. "Shirez, too. Then you'll have an escape, should things go badly here."

"They won't go badly." Doubar has to believe it. They've never tried anything of this magnitude without Sinbad before, but Rongar is capable and he believes in him, in Firouz and Talia, in the hope he sees in Nasir's eyes. He clasps hands with the man as Shirez opens the door in the wall once more.

"Be careful," Nasir warns. "Be quiet, be quick. And have faith."

Doubar does. Not in himself, but in everyone around him, and that has to be enough.

---

Something's wrong.

Sinbad wakes with a jolt, a wave of cold terror unlike anything he's ever felt before washing over him, threatening to drag him under. The jarring sense of unease rips through him and he yanks himself upright and out of bed before he can think better of it, just as Maeve did yesterday when Scratch tried to bring the house down around them.

Thin, pale dawn light filters through the cracks in the boarded up window and he almost plows straight into the wide, shallow brazier burning next to the big bed. The events of the past day slam through his memory with bruising force, and he staggers. Maeve. He remembers her tortured cries, her blood, too much blood, so much it leaked through the straw and stained the floorboards, a grim reminder of how close he came to losing her.

And Fin. His Finleigh.

He dozed fitfully off and on throughout the night, his newborn cradled to his chest, warm and soft and alive and absolutely perfect, Maeve heavily asleep beside him. Every couple of hours Wren or their neighbor Bree came to offer suck while he added charcoal to the brazier and tended its flame, then returned his daughter to his arms. It probably would be less work for them if they just kept the newborn overnight but he couldn't bear to offer and no one is willing to insist, considering his dwindling time with Fin. He changed her wet diaper, which shocked Bree, and Fin hasn't been out of his arms except to nurse. He swore he wouldn't put her down until Scratch forced him, and he meant every word of that vow.

But now, as he staggers at the side of the bed, forcing his half-asleep mind to wakefulness, Fin is gone. There's no woman sitting in the wooden chair nursing her, and he's positive no one in this house would dare take her from him without cause. Today is his last day on earth if Scratch's claim on his soul proves valid, and that's a line they will not cross simply to cuddle a newborn.

Which means something is very, very wrong. Panic fills him and he sinks back onto the feather mattress, staring at the empty bed. Maeve slept heavily all night long, heedless to the quiet movements in the room, just as Keely said she would under a sleep spell. It's not how Sinbad imagined their first night together as a family—their only night together as a family—but her body wasn't ready for the difficult birth, her mind wasn't ready for the loss she knows is coming, and it was best for her that she sleep. But the bed is empty now, her pillow cold when he touches the indent where her head belongs, and the way his stomach churns and drops out from under him, like his ship tossed in a storm, tells him that his panic is very valid. Maeve just survived a difficult birth that had even Keely worried, his daughter was born too soon and is extremely delicate, and now they're both missing.

He throws his shirt over his shoulders without bothering with his hijam or vest, shoves his feet into his boots, and strides for the door. He needs Maeve back, no matter how much she hates him, and he needs his daughter safe in his arms.

Before he can reach it, the door opens. He stops short, a brief moment of hope filling him, but the figure that enters isn't Maeve. It's Cairpra, and her arms are empty, no newborn in sight. He can tell by the look in her eyes, however, that she knows exactly what's happened.

"What did she do?" he demands. Maeve swore, in the depths of her pain, that she hated him. She repudiated him, tried to claim he was no longer anything to her. But everyone warned him women say things they don't mean while giving birth, and he was prepared to wait instead of assuming the worst. Now, though, he can't lie to himself any longer. She meant it. She had to. Why would a woman in her condition disappear, otherwise?

Cairpra clasps her hands in front of her, and in spite of his fury she does not back down. "What did you expect her to do?"

"Sleep! Recover! Hate me for all eternity! I don't care, so long as she does it here, where she's protected!" he bellows. He understands if she hates him. That's her right, after all he's done to her. But she can't disappear like this, leaving the protection of Breakwater and her family's care.

Cairpra is too polite to roll her eyes, but the dry look she gives him is close. "Where would you get any of those ideas? Sometimes I wonder about you, Sinbad. For an intelligent man, you have quite a lot to learn."

"Where are they?" he demands. "Where is my daughter?" He needs them back, and he's terrified. Maeve rejected Fin. She didn't want her. He's not saying that means he doesn't trust her to take care of Fin, but it does concern him.

"Breathe, captain. In truth, I don't quite know where she went. Not to point to on a map, you understand. And there's no magical way to follow where she's gone without knowing, so don't ask."

He turns swiftly, though what exactly he's seeking in this empty room, he doesn't know. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes so hard he sees sparkles and bursts of light behind his eyelids, and his lungs scream at him but he's incapable of taking a breath. No. Not now. Not like this. He had every intention of fighting Scratch with everything he has, fighting for the right to stay with his family. But now his family is gone. Maeve woke, took their daughter away from him, and went somewhere Cairpra says he can't follow. And he can't cope with that.

"She hates me that much?" The words that escape his mouth are guttural and hoarse, whispered more than spoken, harsh as knives in his throat.

"She loves you that much," Cairpra corrects.

He drops his hands and turns, lashing out viciously though that's never been his habit in the past. He fell asleep an hour or two ago with his newborn on his chest, and woke alone to the reality that her mother took her away. Below the simmering rage, he's...hollow. Gutted yet again by a betrayal he never expected. "She refused me my only day with my daughter because she loves me? Left without a word because she loves me?" The bitter bite of dark sarcasm feels utterly unnatural, but he can't help it. He's always been an optimistic guy, a hopeful man. But not after this.

Cairpra extracts a scrap of paper from an apron pocket and holds it out. "Not without a word," she says. "She knew you would be angry, but she also knew you would try to stop her if you woke."

"Of-fucking-course I would!" He snatches the paper from her, barely able to read the short note. Maeve has beautiful handwriting, but this was written swiftly, with firm intent and purpose. He can feel her resolve in the shapes of her hasty letters.

I'm going to fix this.

"How?" he demands, as much of the empty room as of Cairpra. "How does she expect to fix this?"

"Does it matter?" the old sorceress asks calmly. "Isn't it enough that the situation is not what you assumed? She didn't leave to spite you, Sinbad. She left to save you."

He paces the small room, his steps swift with agitation. Should that make him feel better? It doesn't. He wants her here, wants her safe. She can hate him all she likes. He'll leave her alone if she insists. But she shouldn't be up, and she shouldn't be out there, gods know where, on her own. Keely's going to hit the roof when she hears what's happened.

"Maeve doesn't hate you," Cairpra says gently.

"She has a damned funny way of showing it."

"You can't take anything she said yesterday seriously, boy. I know it's the first time you've ever witnessed a woman in labor, but just because she said she hated you in the heat of the moment doesn't make it true."

"I know that," he snaps. "You think I care what she said? It stung, I'll admit, but Keely warned me and I know perfectly well who Maeve is, the good and the bad. She has every right to hate me for the rest of eternity if she wants to, but I was prepared to wait until she woke and told me so. I never expected her to take Fin away." His voice cracks on his baby's name. Even if Maeve truly did hate him, he thought she'd allow him this day with his child, this one final mercy. He was the one to soothe and calm Fin moments after birth, to bathe and wrap her, hold her to his skin and warm her new little body. Maeve couldn't, so he stepped in, terrified but willing. He was prepared to lavish all the love he could on his little girl today, to give her everything he might never again get the chance to. To give Maeve whatever she might accept. But she took that from him, and this is the part he's now having a lot of trouble not hating her for.

"You say you know who Maeve is. Do you? I wonder." Cairpra's eyes are compassionate, but her voice is firm. "She's done a remarkable job these past moons of being something she fundamentally is not. She did her best to follow the rules of the Tam Lin Protocol, when she is not at heart very good at following rules. Circumstance required her to keep quiet and tell lies, when these things are alien to her nature. Once she was attacked she had to lie still in bed to save your daughter's life, which was not easy for her despite her physical weakness. She did all of it for you—for the sake of your soul. What makes you think, with so little time left, she would stop fighting now? With her child born, she's freed from the necessity of keeping still. Should she be resting? Of course. But surely you didn't truly expect that she would."

He stares at the small woman before him. She's right. She's utterly right, and yet he never saw it coming. He knows who Maeve is, knows her better than he knows anyone else, even Doubar. Even Dim-Dim. But, maybe because she seemed so broken yesterday, he never expected this. He assumed her part of this fight was over, and he would take over from here. She's not physically well, just endured a difficult birth, and now has a newborn to care for. He wants her back, safe on this island, where Keely can tend to her and Wren and their neighbor can help nurse Finleigh. He wants them out of harm's way, and while he has no idea what Maeve is planning in that lovely, conniving head of hers, he knows it's not safe. She doesn't know how to play safe.

"She's going to kill herself. She can't be away from me." He holds up his arm, the bracelet on his wrist brightly aglow. "That magic has been keeping her alive."

"And she's been weaning off of it, little by little, these past weeks. Haven't you felt it? That's why you're able to leave her side now."

"To go downstairs! Not traipsing off wherever she is!" His head falls into his hands. "She just gave birth. Lost too much blood. Keely said so. She needs that magic."

"And how will she get it, if she lets Scratch take you? You are the conduit. If you die, the magic goes with you."

He has no ready answer for that. Their time spent on Breakwater has been a torment in many ways—the constant uncertainty, the incredible pressure—but in others it's been...blissful. Maeve needed him in ways she ordinarily would not, and he has to admit that part of him likes this, likes knowing that he's been able to provide something for her that no one else could. Keely's desperate spell linked them together so closely that he was able to participate in the care of his child more than any expectant father could wish. While Maeve's body sheltered and nourished Fin, he supplied them both with the energy that kept them alive. They've been so close, and to have them suddenly ripped from his life like this feels not just painful but wholly unnatural. Alien to his being.

"I need my girls back."

"Don't you think she wants the same? A future with you in it?"

"I'm willing to surrender my soul if necessary!" he snarls.

"She, quite obviously, is not."

What is he supposed to say to that? He knows the woman he chose as his champion, the mother of his child. He should have known that, no matter how broken she seemed yesterday, she wouldn't stay down for long. She's never been able to accept defeat, even when she should. But he's terrified that that stubborn, intractable temperament is going to get both her and Finleigh killed. And for what? Nothing, not even his soul, is worth those two lives.

"What is she planning?" he asks finally, his voice broken. "What does she think she can possibly do to stop this?"

"To be honest, I don't entirely know," Cairpra says. "I didn't stop her because I had no right to, and I didn't demand details because I suspected she had none. I know she intends to enlist supernatural aid, and I know she did not intend to take the baby with her. Your daughter more or less insisted." A dry smile plays over Cairpra's mouth. "She's getting a head start on the family business."

Sinbad covers his eyes with his palm. "She's going to be grounded until she's your age, if I ever see them again."

Cairpra touches his shoulder. "Have faith, Sinbad. You chose Maeve for a reason."

"Because I love her." He shifts away from her hand. "Because there was never any other choice. She's it for me. She always has been." Maybe before he met her. Maybe before she even met Dim-Dim. He doesn't know how fate works, but he can feel it at play, feel in his bones the inevitability of this moment, no matter how much he wants to believe he chose his own destiny. She's a flawed individual, as everyone is, but she's perfect for him, as if their rough edges were shaped purposefully to fit so beautifully together. The men who don't want a woman like her don't know what they're missing, and he's very happy to let them continue in ignorance. His tall, mouthy, aggressive girl is perfect, and that's not just absence and grief talking. After they worked past their rocky first meeting, he's always thought so. She's everything, and she gave him a perfect little daughter on top of it all.

But then she took her away again. He didn't know what it felt to truly be empty until he woke up alone this morning.

"If that's true, if you believe she was always meant to be your champion, then this battle was always hers to fight," Cairpra says calmly. "You can be upset at the danger if you like, and you can miss her and the child all you please, but you cannot blame her for doing what she must."

"She swore she wouldn't leave. That she would talk to me instead of running." He extracted this vow from her when she became his chéile, and again after Scratch goaded her into trying to run from the Nomad. Without the demon's voice constantly whispering in her head, he thought they were safe from any further incidents. That she would keep her promise, and they could talk through her fears instead of running from them.

"You know perfectly well that doesn't apply here, and was likely a vow you could never seriously hope to enforce anyway. She didn't run from you. You named her your champion, and you know how seriously she takes a charge like that."

He knows. That's what he's always loved about her. And what terrifies him now.

---

"I don't know why I agreed to this," Shirez mutters as they climb a narrow staircase so steep Doubar has to heave his bulk up each step one at a time. The secret tunnels inside the walls of the palace are so small that he feels like a rat caught in a trap. He wants fresh air, salt-sweet brine and a cooling wind, not the dismal stuffy dank of these never-ending passageways.

"You agreed for the promise of a better future," he grunts, sweat heavy on his brow and the back of his neck. He wants to cast off his cape, but he doesn't dare. Without that cape and his helmet, he won't be able to move freely around the palace grounds. Shirez promised they could get most of the way to the sword through the secret passages, but they're going to have to emerge sooner or later.

"So you keep saying." She pauses near a bend in the tunnel and inhales slowly. "Let's hope that disguise works well for you. It's time to leave the shadows."

Good. Doubar hates all this skulking. He'd much rather fight things out, man-to-man. The fact that this isn't possible right now irritates the hell out of him. He adjusts his helmet, wipes the sweat from his brow, and nods at her. She presses an indentation in the wall and another door slides aside.

They emerge into a silent corridor, thankfully airier than the tunnels. Dawn shimmers outside, and through the finely-carved arched windows Doubar can see the clouds breaking up, the weak promise of sunshine glimmering through. The storm is over, at least for now. He inhales a fresher breath and follows Shirez as silently as he can as she continues along the hallway. Richly patterned rugs and inlaid mosaics line the golden stone walls, but to Doubar this place still feels like a prison. He wonders if his guide feels the same. She pauses in the deserted corridor.

"Ali Rashid keeps the sword of Imra in his personal quarters when he is not wielding it. The door is just around this corner, two guards posted at all times."

Two guards are nothing. Doubar waves this concern aside. "Where is the prince now?"

"How should I know?" Even her whisper is scornful. "I've been playing at intrigue with you all night."

He takes a slow breath, struggling to keep his temper and not snap at her. She's not making it easy. "I realize that. But you know his habits."

"Except today, as you pointed out before, is not a normal day. He and his witch are on their guard. I can't guarantee anything."

Fair enough. "Where would he be at dawn on a normal day?"

"Up on the ramparts, making his morning inspections. He may be indulgent, but he is not a lazy man. He sleeps little, more's the pity for you."

"No, that's good," Doubar says. "I'm just as happy not to find him in his quarters. I'd rather do this quietly, and give Rongar and Zorah time to prepare before an angry prince charges us." He's feeling a little guilty about doing all this without their approval, but he had to seize the opportunity to act when it presented itself.

"You do seem to know what you're talking about," Shirez admits grudgingly.

"I told you, we've done this before. Usually not with such high stakes, but the basics of overthrowing a despot don't change. Should I try to disarm those guards quietly?"

Shirez eyes him. "Can you do anything quietly?"

"Ah...not much, no." He can't help it. A man of his size just isn't meant to be quiet. He starts forward.

The scene around the corner sits exactly as the girl described it: two large guards, a set of double doors, an otherwise empty hallway. It's perfect. They're big, but Doubar isn't concerned. The bigger they are, the more satisfaction he gets out of knocking them senseless.

"Put your hand on my arm," Shirez hisses as they begin their approach.

"What?"

She glares at him. "Grab my arm! Play your part. Tell them the prince sent for me."

Oh. He'd rather just knock the guards out, honestly, but her way will cause less commotion and they don't need any added attention right now. He wraps his big hand around her upper arm, mindful of the bruises she has from being hauled around by rougher men who don't care. She's slim and soft under his fingers, nothing at all like Maeve's slender whipcord strength.

The guards watch their approach with only mild curiosity. They look like they've been on duty all night, which is just as well. That means they won't know Shirez escaped her punishment with the help of a supposed rogue soldier. Doubar clears his throat. He's not a good actor and he knows this, but none of Ali Rashid's men have questioned him thus far. Little Zainab is probably smarter than all of these mercenaries combined.

"His Highness wanted the girl brought to his quarters...uh, after," he says, nodding at the guards as he and Shirez pause before the door. It's a tense moment. They have no reason to doubt him, but that doesn't mean they won't.

The nearer man snorts. "Yeah. Heard about the whore's punishment, but we were on duty all night and couldn't join in. Pity." He leers at her. "She don't look too bad, though. You all must have gone easy on her. I'm surprised she can still walk." He eyes Shirez speculatively. She lowers her head and stares at the floor. Doubar knows her well enough by now to know that she's not being properly submissive, just hiding a furious scowl. One corner of his mouth twitches. He likes this girl. He shouldn't—she's not his usual type. One reason he never fell for Maeve was her notoriously foul temper, and this girl's bitterness is far worse than Maeve's fire and occasional petulance. But there's something about this girl he's warming to, despite her cynical nature.

"The prince must want to see for himself the job you did before she cleans up, eh?" The second guard laughs unpleasantly. "I'm not surprised. If she's not bleeding up under there by now, he may finish the job himself."

The guards step aside, allowing Doubar to open the door. He guides Shirez to enter before him, holding her arm gently. Poor girl. She's nothing but a piece of meat to these men, to her prince, and she knows it.

"Fucking animals," she mutters as Doubar closes the door firmly in the guards' faces. She shakes her arm free of his grip and he releases her instantly. She doesn't seem to like being touched, and that's not a line he's willing to test with a girl so damaged as this one, so reluctant to help him.

"I'll kill them all for you, if it will make you feel better."

The look she gives him is difficult to read. He thinks it's a mixture of bewilderment and her usual scorn. "You're a very strange man in some ways, brother-of-Sinbad, and in others you are utterly predictable."

He has no idea what she means by that. "You've got yourself into a predicament now, you know. I can get out past those guards again, but you can't. They'll expect you to stay and wait for the prince. You should have just let me squash them."

She waves this protest aside. "I'll climb out the window. I have plenty of times before. The harem is nearby, an easy scramble."

Oh, he doesn't like that. He doesn't like it at all. Shirez is a concubine—brutally treated, but also pampered and indulged. She's not physically strong like Maeve or Talia, and he doesn't like the thought of her scrambling around the carved facade of the palace, this side of which drops precipitously to sharp rocks and the sea. He also hates the thought of leaving her alone in this gods-be-damned place. If Ali Rashid doesn't already know she escaped her punishment, he will soon. He'll be furious at her even without her treasonous involvement with Doubar. He saved her from a fate no woman deserves, an ordeal that might have killed or permanently mutilated her, but in doing so he also made her a target. That means her safety is now his responsibility. Doesn't it? He's fairly sure that's how that works.

"I'll climb with you," he says firmly. At least he can do this much, if she insists on escaping through a window.

"No. You need to find the sword and get out that door quickly. The guards will get suspicious if they don't see you again."

Doubar scowls, but she's right. Pummeling those men until they couldn't raise a fuss is beginning to sound like the better option all the time, but it's probably too late for that now. He squares his shoulders and looks around the room instead. "Any idea where the sword is?"

"No," she admits. "He changes its hiding place from time to time. He's paranoid, I told you."

Irritation wells in Doubar's belly, but he can't be mad at the girl. She brought him as far as she could, and now he has to do his part. He eyes the large room, seeking anything that looks like a likely hiding place for a sword. There's no bed, so this must be a private sitting room for the prince and his closest companions. It's lovely, furnished in rich reds and burgundies, full of sumptuous fabrics and the gleam of gold. Doubar himself would love to relax in such an environment, but knowing the nature of the man who created it, he only wants to burn this all to the ground. Frowning, he steps through an arched doorway into the next room in the royal suite as Shirez begins to rifle through Ali Rashid's possessions, searching for the sword.

This must be the bedroom. It's large and light and airy, plenty of windows to circulate air during the heat of the day. Like the other room, priceless objects lie everywhere in a cluttered mess. Rich tapestries and glimmers of gold gleam from every angle. How Doubar is supposed to find anything in this chaos, he's not sure.

Instead of a bed, Ali Rashid appears to prefer the comfort of enormous plush cushions tossed directly on the floor, each one big enough to hold several bodies. What that says about what takes place in this room, Doubar prefers not to question. The prince keeps a large harem of girls, and that speaks for itself. Doubar digs through the wooden trunks lining the walls, finding all manner of expensive objects, but no flaming swords. He tosses every weapon he finds out the window anyway, just because he doesn't like this guy. Several ceremonial daggers land on the wet, wave-whipped rocks far below, along with a small arsenal of more utilitarian blades, staves, and bows. Judging by the items in his personal rooms, this prince is both horribly decadent and horrendously paranoid—fitting for a man who stole a throne he knows he's not entitled to.

Shirez appears in the doorway as Doubar deftly breaks the lock on the final wooden chest in the room. He's not going for stealth. It doesn't matter that Ali Rashid will know with a glance that his rooms were tossed, because Doubar doesn't intend for him to curl up on his velvet cushions and drift to sleep tonight.

"Nothing in the other room?"

"Not that I could find. I don't—" Her delicate golden sandal catches the edge of an uneven floorboard as she steps into the room. She pitches forward, and Doubar has to lunge to catch her in time. She's tiny compared to him, and he sets her back on her feet easily. "Sorry. I know you don't like to be touched." He rubs his palms against his thighs, suddenly embarrassed. "Just be careful. You don't need any more bruises than you already have."

She looks at him curiously. "Who said I don't like to be touched?"

He frowns. "Don't you? You don't act like it."

"I—" She breaks off and her mouth falls shut. Is this seriously something she's never questioned before? "It doesn't matter whether I like it or not. It's my job." She shrugs this aside with uncomfortable impatience. "Stupid sandals," she says instead, bending to inspect her footwear. "I'd prefer shoes actually meant to be walked in, or nothing at all."

Doubar watches her cast aside the broken sandal, the ridiculously thin sole snapped firmly in two by the mere act of stubbing her toe on some uneven flooring. "What's stopping you from wearing boots, or going barefoot?" Maeve does both, and Talia wouldn't be caught dead in slinky golden sandals like that.

The look in Shirez's dark eyes is scathing as she slips off the second sandal. "You say that like you think I get a choice."

Doubar shuts his mouth, for two very good reasons. One, because he knows no good can come of anything he says at this point, and two, because he now sees why she caught her foot in the first place. The floorboard wasn't poorly laid or curling due to humidity, as he assumed. Instead, it's visibly crooked, tilted away from its neighbors. He pries at it with his fingers, and the board lifts away to reveal a narrow hidden compartment under the floor. Shirez hisses in warning as his hand probes inside the dark space, but he pays her no mind. If he gets cut or bit or otherwise maimed, it's his own fault.

His fingers close around something that feels smooth like metal, but far too warm, almost unbearably hot, like the tiller of the Nomad during the fiercest heat of the day. He grips the object cautiously and withdraws it, revealing a metal sheath cladding a very heavy sword. As he maneuvers the leather-wrapped hilt out of the narrow opening, Shirez exhales a deep breath.

This is it. He doesn't have to ask. What else but a flame sword would feel so warm, even through a protective metal sheath? Even so, he wraps his hand around the hilt and cautiously slides just the first inch from the sheath. He needs to be sure, though he has no wish to mess with such a powerful magical object. Magic is trouble, and magical weapons are twice the trouble. He wants no part of this sword.

Instead of the shine of iron or steel, his eyes are nearly blinded by the flash of sudden flame as the blade slides easily from its sheath. He curses and slams the sword back home, blinking blind spots from his vision. "Yeah, that's a flame sword, all right."

Shirez swiftly pushes the floorboard back into place, though Doubar doesn't know why she bothers. "You need to go. Swiftly. Get out of here with that thing." She grabs a fold of his sleeve and tugs, urging him to his feet. "Hide it under your cloak. Don't let anyone see you with it."

Yes, he knows the urgency of the situation, but still he lingers. "I can't just leave you like this," he protests.

"I can get from here to the harem, I told you. I do it all the time. I'll get word to the prisoners. You find Zorah. Free the prince you say is better than this one."

Doubar doesn't like this. He doesn't like it one bit. He's convinced that girl is his responsibility since he saved her from punishment and thus painted a target on her back. And leaving any girl alone in the heart of a sadistic tyrant's lair is not what he considers an acceptable action, regardless of whether or not he's a hero. But she's correct that the most important thing right now is getting this sword out of the palace so they can set all the disparate parts of this plan into motion.

"You be careful, girl." He reaches for her hand, intending on giving it a brief squeeze, but she shies swiftly away. Right. He can clasp the hand of any other comrade in greeting or parting, but not this one. He can't blame her, considering all she's been through. She may say physical contact is her job, something she neither likes or dislikes, but her subconscious body language says otherwise.

"I'm always careful," she says. He doesn't know her well enough to even guess whether this is true or not. He hates the necessity, but he protests no further. He belts the sword of Imra to his right hip, covers it with his cloak, and leaves the room swiftly.

"Did you have to tie her up so she would stay?" one of the guards asks as Doubar exits. He chuckles unpleasantly. "Or did you take one last turn before handing her over?"

Doubar really, really wants to sock these two, just as he did their comrades last night. But Shirez doesn't want to raise an alarm, and she's right. Until Rongar is free and Zorah notified, the plan is vulnerable. He needs to get out of the palace before he starts anything. But he's taking names. These two are now on his list, and he'll be very glad to deal with them personally once Rongar gives the command. Swallowing back what he wants to say, he turns and strides down the hallway. He'll lose himself forever in the maze of secret passages if he tries to retrace his previous steps, so instead he opts to tread the open corridors, out in plain view, trusting to his disguise to keep him safe. He seeks stairways leading down, searching for the ground floor and a door, any door, to the outside. This palace is large and sprawling and beautiful, but right now it's a huge hassle as well. All he wants is escape.

The people he passes in the halls are largely servants; few guards are on patrol inside the castle walls, and he spies no courtiers at all. What that says about Ali Rashid's court, he doesn't know. Maybe the man has none, aside from the cronies who helped put him in power, men with no more right to titles and riches than their so-called prince.

Leaving Shirez still tugs at his conscience, but Doubar tries to make the best of it. He garners less attention without a half-naked girl at his side and that, at least, is a blessing. Mind humming with anxiety, very aware of the weight and heat of the enchanted sword under his cloak, he finally manages to locate a small postern and slips through it.

Outside, full morning has arrived. As he exits a courtyard and circles the backside of the palace, Doubar breathes a little easier. Saturated grass steams in the sunlight, heavy mist gathering as the remnants of last night's prolonged downpour begin to evaporate. This place is lovely in the sunlight, but he has no time to appreciate the beauty of Rongar's home. He has multiple tasks to accomplish, and very little time before Ali Rashid discovers his sword has been stolen.

"Doubar!"

The shout jolts him, and he reaches automatically for the hilt of his sword. Whirling, he seeks the source of the voice.

"What are you doing out in the open?"

As he recognizes the approaching veiled figure, Doubar relaxes. At least he doesn't have to worry about finding Zorah. She's found him. Her flowing orange and blue garments ripple in the morning breeze. He waves her around to the far side of a slender stone column, out of sight of guards patrolling the nearby courtyard.

"I thought you planned to return to the city at some point," she says, her eyes frowning at him as she draws close. "Have you been prowling all night? Zainab was worried you must have been caught because of that terrible disguise."

Doubar grins. He feels on top of the world right now. He's holding Ali Rashid's magical sword, the sword that by all rights belongs to Rongar and Zorah. He convinced a recalcitrant girl to help him find it, and he got it out of the palace himself. He finally did something right, after feeling for so long that he'd lost this ability. He may never get the chance to make things right with Sinbad and Maeve, but the sword at his side has to count for something. "I've been learning," he tells Zorah. "Speaking to people. I—"

"I warned you not to do that," she interrupts, her gaze growing worried. "If you say the wrong thing to the wrong person…"

"No, no, it's fine this time," he assures her. "I accidentally saved a girl—it's a long story. She agreed to take me to the dungeons to speak with the prisoners there. I met Nasir. Zainab's father is alive."

Zorah pauses. "Nasir is alive?"

"Yes, I spoke with him. The prisoners are going to rush the armory and join the fight. They want Ali Rashid gone as much as you do. Listen." As quickly as he's able, tripping over his words in his rush to get them all out, he relates to her his night's exploits. Zorah listens in silence until he draws the folds of his cloak aside, revealing the sheathed sword of Imra.

"You have it. You truly have it," she breathes, a hand rising to touch her veiled mouth through the fabric. A small tremor ripples through her. Her hand shakes, but Doubar doesn't dare clasp it.

"I'm sorry if I went too far. I didn't mean to. I...there was an opportunity, and I had to seize it. I know that means we have to rush now, but—"

"Hush. Do not apologize." She takes his hand and squeezes hard. "You may just have found the key to turn this battle in our favor. Ali Rashid still has his army, but without his sword he is weaker. And without his sword, his witch may not be willing to aid him."

That's a consequence of his theft Doubar hadn't considered, and it's one he decides he likes. If Rumina is only hanging around because she hopes Ali Rashid will cut her free of the necklace slowly choking her, she may choose to abandon him and this fight. Or aid Rongar, if she thinks he may oblige her where Ali Rashid has been hesitant. Doubar wouldn't, but that's not his call to make.

"The only piece that worries me, to be honest, is trusting the soft one as you did. Take care, Doubar. I warned Rongar. She is faithful only to herself."

Doubar frowns. It's true that Shirez is not helping him out of magnanimity or altruism. What she does, she does purely for her own reasons and he's not wholly sure yet what those are. Self-preservation, yes, but there's something more there, too. Possibly something as simple as gratitude for his aid, something she's rarely been shown before, but he doesn't read people as easily as Rongar does, and he can't say for sure. But he doesn't see that as a compelling reason not to trust her.

"Is that your gift talking?" he queries cautiously. "Have you seen something about Shirez I should know about?" He draws his cloak back over the sword, obscuring it once more from view. He's incredibly uncomfortable carrying the damn thing around, and he wants nothing more than to hand it off to Rongar and be rid of it.

"I have seen very little about the coming battle, none of it clear. Usually that means key decisions have not yet been made, and may likely happen in the heat of the moment. This gift, I warned you, is always truthful but not always helpful. But that's not what tells me to be cautious of your new friend."

"Then what does?"

"Past experience. Knowledge of the ways of the mind. My own motivations when I betrayed my brother." Her eyes glimmer with remorse. "These are not infallible, I realize. And she led you to the sword, true enough. I'm only advising that you be cautious."

Doubar can understand that. He doesn't know these people, after all, not really. And Zorah knows betrayal better than anyone. "I will," he promises. "But for now, we need to get moving. Free Rongar, get the fairies to the Nomad so they're out of the way when the fight begins."

"That way," Zorah says, pointing down a gentle slope, toward the smell of the sea. "We can circle past the royal pier and see how your ship fares, how many men guard it. Depending on what we find, it may be safer to take Antoine and Nessa to the public harbor."

Doubar acknowledges the wisdom of this. Their time is trickling away swiftly—Ali Rashid may discover his sword is missing at any moment. But they can't bring Maeve's family members to safety until they know where that safety is. He follows Zorah readily as she winds her way down the hill, cutting swiftly toward the smell of the sea.

"Is the kid okay? Those goons searching the city for Sinbad didn't hurt her?"

"They didn't get near her. I told you, they fear me and my gift. They never even knocked on the door. The child is worried for you, but otherwise fine." She chuckles. "You made an impression on her."

Doubar grins. "Only because I'm a sucker. She knows a mark when she sees one."

"She may have said something similar, but I don't believe it was just that. You say you are no hero. The child believes otherwise."

Doubar doesn't know how he feels about that. He likes the kid, but she's wrong. He's no hero. She just doesn't know the terrible things he's done.

At the bottom of the hill, a narrow strip of rocky beach strewn with boulders frames the vast expanse of the sea. Two wide piers jut into the water, and yes, to Doubar's everlasting relief, there's the Nomad, moored firmly to one. She's a beautiful sight to his eyes, bright as a jewel in the growing sunlight, and he heaves a massive sigh of momentary happiness despite the five mercenaries scattered over the pier and the deck of the ship. Sinbad's ship, their home, is safe. She's still afloat. The guards don't matter; Doubar can take care of them.

"There's the royal barge," Zorah says softly as they pause on the rocky shore. "And that little ship belongs to one of Ali Rashid's favorite slavers. I think he's been selling some of the prisoners off, but I don't know for sure." She scowls beneath her veil. "The other ship, the bigger one. That's yours?"

"That's the Nomad," Doubar confirms. He has no claim to the ship at the moment—Sinbad kicked him off, stripped him of his rank, which means the Nomad is not his home right now. But that doesn't matter. This is where his allegiance always will lie.

"Five guards." Zorah tilts her head to the side, considering them. "I expected more."

"Are most still patrolling the city?"

"Most likely," she agrees. "And, since they already searched your ship thoroughly for Sinbad and the Celt, they may not feel the need to guard it more aggressively." Her eyebrows draw together as she frowns. "You will have to fight your way through these five to bring Antoine and Nessa to safety, Doubar. I doubt they can walk, even with my spell. Antoine perhaps, but not his sister. She's been poisoned for too long."

Doubar eyes the guards. Two stand lazily on the dock, three on the Nomad's deck. They don't belong there, and he's ready to begin this fight. If he clears them out now, it will be less work later when he returns with the fairies. "No time like the present," he decides, and unhooks the sword of Imra from his belt.

"What are you doing?" Zorah protests as he pushes the too-warm metal sheath into her hands. "I'm not a fighter!"

"I'm not asking you to fight. I can take care of five measly little mercenaries. You were the sword's keeper, weren't you? Keep it."

She clutches the sheathed weapon in her hands and shifts her weight nervously from foot to foot as he very deliberately draws his own saber and steps onto the pier. The guards see him, and they tense as they watch him draw his weapon.

"That's my brother's ship. My home. Those meddlers don't belong aboard. I'll clear them out, then we can go free everyone."

Zorah doesn't demand that he stop, which Doubar takes to mean she hasn't seen anything about the outcome of this fight. That's fine by him. He'd far rather not know the future most of the time.

The two men on the pier draw their weapons as he steps closer. That's good. Doubar isn't interested in wasting time. He's not playing around. He drew first, deliberately approaching with a blade in his hand, making his intentions abundantly clear. He may be wearing the same gray cloak and metal helm they do, but they know he's not their comrade. He smiles grimly as he nears them.

"What's all this?" one of the men on the Nomad demands.

"Exactly what I'd like to know."

That voice. It freezes Doubar where he stands.

The door to the galley slams shut behind Maeve. Like a vision from a memory, she stands tall and proud on the deck of the Nomad, almost as if she never left it. She wears a wide band of soft leather across her torso that she didn't before, but as her hand hovers near the hilt of her broadsword, she looks every bit as dangerous as she always has. Fire-bright curls toss in the stiff morning wind. Doubar's mouth drops open, and he swears his heart stops beating for a long, painful moment.

"What are these...people...doing on Sinbad's ship?" She eyes the men in gray cloaks with obvious distaste. "I don't like the looks of them."

Doubar tries to speak, but his voice fails him. He opens his mouth, but no sound emerges. The last time he saw this woman, she had collapsed in a heap of white linen and tanned leather at his feet. Her blood wet his knuckles. Sinbad would have killed him for that act had Rongar not intervened, though whether that was an act of mercy or judgment, he doesn't know. It's felt at times like both.

Now Maeve stands before him once more, and as he feared, he's feeling the distinct urge to run. To shrink back from the fire in her dark eyes. He'd forgotten, during her absence, just how powerful her presence can be. She's not happy at all, and that displeasure crackles like flame around her, almost a tangible fire.

"I—" Doubar's voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. "I was just about to take out the trash," he offers. It feels empty to his own ears. She deserves the wordiest, most flowery apology he can craft, but he's no good at stringing words together and now isn't a great time.

"Well then." She draws her sword, very slowly and very deliberately, a laconic smile hovering briefly over her full mouth. "By all means."

Things aren't okay between them. Not even remotely. But, at least for the moment, she demands nothing else of him. Doubar smiles too, and slams his fist into the nearest mercenary's face. The man reels back, blood dripping down his chin.

"That's the Celt!" one of the other men says, backing swiftly away from Maeve. "The wench the prince is looking for."

"Is he now?" Maeve says, raising one eyebrow slightly.

"Where did she come from?" another mercenary demands. "No one was down there a moment ago! I checked myself."

Doubar doesn't blame the men for backing away. Not when Maeve gets her big broadsword in her hands and that dangerous glint in her eye. She laughs lightly, a sweet little trill of sound, and lunges.

The man Doubar punched isn't down yet, so he drives his fist once more into the ruined mess of his face. Bone splinters under his knuckles and lodge in the man's eyes, possibly as deep as his brain. He crumples, likely never to rise again. Doubar steps over him, raising his sword to clash with the next man.

"You know," Maeve says as she slams the hilt of her sword into the back of a doubled-over mercenary, "I didn't expect a battle until later today."

"Well, when you're popular…" Doubar's sword slices through the gut of the second mercenary on the dock. Two on the Nomad remain standing; they swiftly drop their swords when Doubar leaps to the deck and aligns himself shoulder to shoulder with Maeve.

"Good choice," she approves, even as a strange little wailing sound erupts from the leather stretched across her body. "Shows you're not all as dumb as you look."

Doubar stares at her. His mind didn't register before, too shocked to see her so abruptly. But she's very clearly not pregnant, and that sound—

"Tie them up," Zorah says, climbing awkwardly over the railing of the Nomad and onto the ship. "Quickly. Before they run. No one can know the Nomad is no longer under Ali Rashid's control."

Doubar staggers as he moves to obey. His mind is whirling, trying to reconcile what he sees with what he hears. Sinbad said she was still with child when he last saw him. She hadn't miscarried, and she planned to challenge Scratch for Sinbad's soul. But now she's standing here on the deck of the Nomad without his brother, and without—

The tiny cry redoubles in intensity. "Tie away," Maeve says, stepping forward to kick the surrendered swords over the side of the ship, into the deep. She sheathes her own blade at her hip once more.

Doubar's hands fumble, but their two prisoners are terrified and give him no trouble. He ties them to the mast, all the while staring at Maeve. She reaches into the soft leather band crossing her torso. Gentle hands withdraw the smallest infant he's ever seen, tinier even than Sinbad was when their father first placed him in Doubar's arms.

"Come here, tough girl," she croons, letting the baby nestle in the crook of her neck. "You're going to have to get used to some jostling. It's your own fault you're here. You could have stayed with your da, but no, you had to cry. You did this to yourself." Her tone is sweet as she calms the child.

"What's going on?" Doubar demands, stumbling forward. "What day is it?" He thought he had the date clear, but he doesn't even know anymore. Something is very, very wrong, he knows that much. Before he reaches Maeve, he reverses course and draws back as if someone wrapped a rope around his middle and hauled at him like a fish on a line. He's suddenly terrified. He wanted a chance to apologize, to tell Maeve and Sinbad everything he's learned, to try to explain, but as he stares at the woman before him, he realizes he has no explanation. He could give a long list of reasons why he did what he did, but none of them will ever be good enough. Nothing will ever absolve him. He almost killed her, and the child she holds to her heart, too.

Maeve lifts her eyes from the baby in her arms, and her expression closes over like a lid slamming down on a coffin. Cold fire replaces the tender warmth in her light brown eyes. "It's Samhain. I thought you'd be able to keep at least that much in your head."

That's what he thought. "But—"

"Scratch meddled again. My Fin was born too soon." Maeve cups her child's head in a protective hand, her thumb stroking over the pale, tender skin. Her dark eyes glint with warning. "If you dare claim the timing means she's not actually Sinbad's, I will incinerate you where you stand."

Doubar winces. Does she know he claimed something similar? He told Sinbad to his face that a female child couldn't possibly be any blood of theirs, but Sinbad adores this woman and he doubts his brother relayed that particular argument to her. "I wouldn't dare," he tells her truthfully. He's learned his lesson, at least where this is concerned.

"We surrendered to a mother with an infant?" one of their prisoners protests.

"I don't know about you," his co-captive says, "but I surrendered to the witch with the giant sword who killed Amir."

Maeve kisses her baby's head, a very satisfied look flashing across her face. "I'm not a witch. But damn right you did."

"But…" Doubar isn't sure he can bear to ask this question, but he also can't bear not to. "The child—the Protocol—what does that mean for Sinbad?"

Maeve exhales a long breath. "It means I'm going to have to do this the hard way. And I need a babysitter. You're it. Grab whatever you need quickly. We don't have much time."

Doubar's mind reels, scrabbling for the right answer to this demand. What is he supposed to tell her? What is he supposed to do? She shouldn't be here. She's supposed to be safe up north, preparing to fight for Sinbad's soul tonight. He's supposed to take the sword of Imra to Rongar, free their friends, and help fight the coming battle. He's got a full plate.

But Sinbad.

He swore an oath to his father, swore to always protect his brother. And he owes Maeve and Sinbad so much, owes them the allegiance that should have been theirs from the beginning. He helped cause this mess, though he never meant to, and he aches for the chance to make that right.

A gentle hand touches his shoulder. "Doubar," Zorah says softly.

Two different families. Two different vows. What is he supposed to do?

"It's all right, Doubar." Zorah squeezes firmly. "Listen to me. Why do you think I insisted we come this way, instead of straight to Rongar?"

He stares hard into her eyes. "What have you seen?" His voice cracks, and he's suddenly weary beyond imagining. He's tired of living under so much uncertainty. Tired of the constant push and pull of magic swirling around him, magic he doesn't understand. Maeve, Zorah, Rumina and Scratch—he's tired of all of it. All he wants in the world is to be back on the Nomad with his friends, Sinbad tall at the tiller, just as they all belong. But Maeve currently holds an infant she shouldn't have in her arms yet, Rongar and Firouz and Talia are locked in a cage like animals, the despot holding them captive seems willing to do whatever Rumina wants so long as she simpers and smiles at him, and Doubar just isn't sure he's up to the task of fixing it all. Not on his own, and right now he feels more alone than ever.

"You're not alone, my friend."

A chill runs down his spine. He likes Zorah well enough, but not the creepy way she has of speaking his thoughts.

"My gift always speaks truthfully. What did I tell you last night? Your absolution can only come from her. This is it. You're looking at it."

Is he? He has never, never been good with decisions, or comfortable with them. This may be the most important one he ever makes, and he's terrified that he'll choose wrong. He desperately wants that absolution, but what if abandoning this fight dooms Rongar? What if it dooms those dying fairies, Maeve's family? She'll never forgive him then.

"I will get the sword to Rongar, I promise. You have done us a great service. Now you must face a new path. Trust Rongar to do what needs to be done here."

He does. Rongar is strong, and canny, and capable. And this is Rongar's fight to lead, Rongar's fight to win. It always has been. Doubar never wanted to take that from him. He just wants to help.

"Help your family," Zorah urges, answering his unspoken thoughts once more, "as you have helped mine."

His family. Doubar struggles to swallow past the huge lump wedged in his throat. He fought this word for so long, denying Maeve's place in his family, denying her child's place. But fighting got him nowhere. Rumina and Scratch may have forced Sinbad's timing, but Firouz was right: Maeve was always going to be Sinbad's choice. Even if Doubar hated her, which he doesn't, he can't deny the uncanny harmony between his amiable brother and the prickly sorceress. They're fire and water, yet they fit together in a way Doubar has never seen Sinbad do with another woman. He adores her, and she's quite obviously willing to risk everything for him. Who is Doubar to fight that?

"That's my niece." He sounds as if someone poured acid down his throat. That's his niece. Sinbad's daughter. Their only other blood kin. She's a tiny little doll, a baby bird nestled against her mother's skin, her minuscule palm settled just at the stark hollow of Maeve's throat. He can barely see her, cradled in her mother's protective embrace, but he watches her eyes blink as she regards this new, big world and glimpses the sea for the first time.

She's precious. Too small, too delicate, and not the nephew he always wanted and assumed he would someday get, but as he stares at her, he feels the last of his resistance crumble away. She's perfect because she's Sinbad's daughter, and he'll fight to the death anyone who doesn't agree.

But a warning glints in Maeve's dark eyes, a smoldering fire just waiting for an excuse to explode. "Be very careful, Doubar, and do not mistake me. I'm not here to offer forgiveness, or anything else. Only the chance to help save Sinbad. He's still furious with you, and I don't know how I feel. I'm too tired to know, and I have been for moons."

"Why me, then?" He feels a sudden tingling behind his eyes. Is that—? No. No, he hasn't cried in years. Maybe decades. It's just a lack of sleep, and the salt wind. It has to be. "Why not Firouz, or Talia? Why not one of your own people?" She has people. He didn't know it before, but he does now. That mouthy little green girl. The man with all the sons. The fairies in their cage. Hell, she could have hundreds more for all he knows.

The smile that touches her mouth chills something inside him. It's both gentle and cruel at the same time, and that combination sets off every internal alarm in Doubar's body. He's going to agree to this. He has no ability to refuse her anything, especially with Sinbad's soul at stake. But he's suddenly very, very worried about what she has planned. "Because," she says, "I need someone who cares more about Sinbad than they do about me. Someone who won't keep harping at me to turn back. Someone who won't get cold feet. You almost killed me in a mistaken attempt to protect your brother. You're the only one who cares so much for him and so little for me, and that's why you're the only one who can come with me."

Doubar eyes her warily. She's right, and yet so, so wrong at the same time. He doesn't hate her. He was mistaken before, as she said, terrified and backed into a corner. He convinced himself she was the enemy, though he knows now she never truly was. But she's not wrong when she says he loves Sinbad more. He always has, and he always will. And he's also very, very suspicious of her plan. For the first time since she appeared so abruptly on the Nomad, he takes a good look at her.

She's rail-thin, like a victim of famine. A fine tremble has set into her limbs, faint but visible as she stands backlit by the early morning sun. Her Celtic complexion is always pale but today she's stark white, white as marble, and that doesn't seem healthy at all. Dark circles rim her sunken eyes, but the fire in them speaks to her unwavering resolve. Whatever she's planning, she's doing it with or without him. Far better with, he decides. Sinbad really will never forgive him if he lets Maeve or the child come to harm.

"When was that baby born?" he demands, sudden suspicion welling in him. She shouldn't be up. He knows nothing about how swiftly women recover from giving birth, but his eyes tell him plainly that she shouldn't be up. She's not well.

Maeve glances at the sun. "What time is it?"

Yeah, that answer tells him all he needs to know. "Does Sinbad know where you are?"

"No."

"What you're planning?"

"No."

"That you took his newborn child halfway around the world with no clue what you were walking into?"

"If he doesn't know yet, he will soon. The sleep I cast on him won't last forever. Are you coming or not?" She kisses her baby and settles her tiny body back in her sling with only a minimum of protest. He can barely tell there's a child under there, strapped securely to her chest.

"He's going to kill you when you return."

A strange, tremulous, sad smile hovers just at the corners of her mouth. "No, he won't."

Doubar doesn't understand. He doesn't understand at all, and while he's used to this, that doesn't mean he likes it. But Zorah says this is his absolution, and to trust Rongar's ability to finish what he started here. Even without the soothsayer's reassurance, he doubts he could refuse Maeve. Sinbad needs him, and that's really all he needs to understand. It's all he's ever needed to understand. "What's my part in this?" he asks, giving in to the inevitable.

"Simple. You're Fin's bodyguard. You have one job—no matter what happens, you make sure she gets back to Sinbad."

"I...see. So he's going to kill me for this. Not you."

"Now you're getting the idea. I didn't plan to bring her, but she would have roused the house and I couldn't have that."

"Because they would have stopped you from leaving." Doubar's liking this less and less the more he hears. Maeve is doing something monumentally stupid, and she knows it. He's her insurance plan. If something goes wrong and she can't return to Sinbad, he becomes her baby's protector.

Yeah, Sinbad's going to kill them both. But at least, if Maeve wins this desperate gamble, he'll be around to kill them.

"If I don't win, take her to the nearest settlement you find. Not a monastery. Anywhere else. Ask for a Breakwater. The people there will get her to my clan."

The child in the sling whines softly. Maeve slips a finger in her mouth, quieting her protests.

"If you don't win, I'll raise her myself. That's my niece."

The fire in Maeve's eyes explodes. "You absolutely will not! You think I'd entrust my daughter's childhood to you after what you did? I don't care that she shares your blood. You're not fit to bring up a girl. My people will raise her if Sinbad and I can't, and if I had no people I'd entrust her to Rongar and Firouz before you. They're clueless, but at least neither of them have ever tried to kill her."

That stings, but Doubar refuses to say so. He deserves it. Why would Maeve feel any differently, after what he's done? He bows his head, accepting her will. That's her baby. She gets to choose. Sinbad ought to have a say, too, but in all likelihood he'd just agree with her assessment of the situation.

"For what it's worth—I'm sorry."

Her eyes look so dark in her stark white face. "I know."

"You do?"

"Of course. I know you. But I'm honestly not sure what exactly you're sorry for. That you hurt someone who didn't deserve it? Or that you lost everything because of it?" Her lips tighten, and she looks away. "It doesn't matter now. I have to save Sinbad. Are you ready?" She lowers her head and kisses her baby one more time, then holds out her hand. "My opal only goes to my sister's library. We're traveling on our own this time."

Doubar grasps her hand. Her grip is as firm and as strong as ever. "Have you done this before?"

"Once. I got lost and almost ended up in hell." She smiles.

"Lovely. Where are we going this time?"

"Off the map."

Because of course they are. And he's all in, because he's always all in, because he doesn't know how to be anything else. Because something went very wrong with the Protocol, and now Maeve has a new plan to save Sinbad's soul, a plan she obviously thinks is likely to get her killed. She wouldn't need Doubar otherwise. He just prays she knows what she's doing, because Sinbad will lose his shit if he loses her like this now.