A/N: Just a quick note about vocabulary. In the West, we use the word "harem" to mean the women owned by a wealthy man, his wives and concubines, when in actuality it means the physical part of the house in which women are permitted. I've used the word in both contexts in this story.
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Sinbad does not agree at all with the decision to take everyone south. In fact, were he captain here, he would demand that all of the women and children—with the possible exception of Cairpra—return to Breakwater before he even thinks about aiding Rongar. Fin has had a rougher first day than any newborn deserves, and she needs tending and quiet, not more travel and jostling. Maeve desperately needs her sister's healing care—Keely's entire focus right now is centered on Maeve, not Fin or Mia, which says clearly how serious Maeve's condition is. Under other circumstances she might have survived the battle for Sinbad's soul nearly unscathed, but she's showing definite signs of losing too much blood, signs he as a veteran fighter can read. Women die in and soon after childbirth all too often, and this is something he cannot let happen. Not now. Not after all she's accomplished. She looks terrible, ashen and pale, and she's freezing under his hands, her body slumped heavily against his. All he wants in the world right now is his girls safe. He wants them warm and clean and fed, tended to by Keely and Cairpra, tucked back into their big bed until they're well enough to safely leave it.
But he's not captain here, as Keely and Cairpra have so often reminded him, and this is not his crew. It's his family—his clan. They became his when Maeve did, and he can't bark orders and expect them to obey. Arab households may work that way. This clan does not. He can make his wishes known, but he cannot demand.
Until they reach the Nomad, that is. Then, they're in his world.
And Maeve is right, no matter how much he hates it. Rongar and the others deserve his aid. Rongar is his brother, possibly more than Doubar. Rongar never abandoned him. Rongar never hurt Maeve or denied Fin. He wants to help his crew. He just doesn't want the vulnerable members of this clan doing the same. Fin is newborn, Maeve bleeding out, Mia vulnerable in the extreme. Cara is terrified of everything except—oddly—Cairpra. Keely and Wren are both with child, and neither they nor Niall are trained to fight. This isn't the cohort he would choose to take into an unknown situation, but nobody gave him the choice.
Maeve's opal lights green with Keely's magic, and Sinbad's arms tighten around the woman slumped against his chest. Fuck, he loves her. He doubts he's capable of denying her anything, especially after today. He believed he lost them, both Maeve and his newborn, but she came through when even he began to doubt. She freed him from Scratch, as she swore so long ago that she would. He no longer bears the brand on his chest, the death's-head which so clearly spoke his fate. On top of that, she gave him the newborn resting in Mia's arms. His soul and his future, twin gifts he will never, never be able to repay. He presses his palm to her cheek, wishing he could urge warmth into her as easily as he once did, but this ability passed with the breaking of Keely's spell and he's not stupid enough to demand she reinstate it. Now that she's awake, Maeve will never allow it.
A rush of intense homesickness and tender joy hits Sinbad like a fist to the gut when the familiar deck of the Nomad appears, the smell and feel of the southern sea engulfing him. He inhales deeply, his eyes seeking Mia in the dark, ensuring that Fin still rests safely in her arms. He'd much prefer if one of the adults took her, but while Mia behaves he won't insist. He strokes Maeve's cold cheek with his thumb and exhales. The deck of his ship shifts gently under them, the creak of wood and hemp infinitely comforting. They're home. He doesn't want her here, moored in an unknown location where he can feel the unease in the air, but he can't deny how right it feels as his body welcomes the movement of the water, the sounds of the ship, these things he's known most of his life.
"Home," she says softly, sucking in her own deep breath. Her eyes shine in the darkness of the southern night.
"Home," he agrees, unable to fight it. They may not be staying long right now—in fact, he hopes they're not—but this is where they belong. It's where they'll always return, given the choice. He presses his lips to her temple.
No lanterns have been lit on the deck, but a few light the dock to which the Nomad is moored. Sinbad takes in their surroundings with a quick, keen glance. Up a gentle sweep of grassy hillside, a beautiful palace and a small city twinkle in the light of lamps and torches. Wherever they are, these people are not celebrating Samhain. He's glad of that. Honoring the dead is all well and good, but tonight Sinbad wants to forget death, not remember it.
But something is very wrong here. He felt it in the air the moment they appeared on the Nomad's deck, and he can hear it on the wind now—the sounds of unrest, faint but clear, from the direction of the city.
A giant whoosh of air exhales from Doubar's lungs. "It's not over." He sounds tired. Sinbad doesn't care. He'll tolerate the man's presence temporarily, for Maeve's sake, but he refuses to forgive him.
"What's not over?" Keely grabs Sinbad's shoulder and bears down, levering herself to her feet and almost knocking him over in the process.
"The fight. It was just starting when Maeve fetched me."
Maeve lifts her head wearily from Sinbad's shoulder. He kisses her mouth softly, then shifts his arms around her and climbs to his feet. She doesn't protest being lifted, which he takes as a very bad sign.
"It's all right now," he murmurs to her. "Keel, you need to see to Maeve."
"I know that," she barks back at him. "You think I don't know my job? She has a bunk here, doesn't she? Put her somewhere comfortable, and then go do your thing. I'm perfectly capable of handling my sister."
Fair enough. "Where's my crew?" he barks at Doubar. "Out in the fight?" A gust of offshore wind strengthens the sound of the melee: the clang of weapons, the cacophony of hundreds of voices raised in fury.
"Ah...I guess so?" Doubar rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, they were locked up in the palace menagerie last I checked, but that was at dawn. I'm sure Rongar's fixed that by now."
Anger lights in Sinbad and he wheels on his brother. "What were they doing locked up? Why didn't you free them?" he demands.
"Maeve insisted that I follow her!"
"I did." Her voice is shaky but her tone firm as she rests a hand on his shoulder. "I made him go with me, Sinbad." She clears her hoarse throat. "I didn't think I'd live to return Fin to you. I needed someone I could trust to do that for me."
Sinbad sets his mouth at her hairline and breathes in the living scent of her—blood and sweat, yes, but underneath the sweet warm green of her, and wills it to calm him. She was appallingly reckless today, and she knows it. She left him with the understanding that she likely would not return, and she did it willingly. He's furious—at her, at Scratch and Rumina, at Doubar. But he has nowhere to vent that fury. His sorceress can bully just about anyone into doing what she wants, so he's not surprised Doubar obeyed her. And she survived. She won. That's what he has to remember. Fin is safe, Mia babbling quietly to her, and Keely is here to see to Maeve's hurts.
"Sinbad," Cairpra says, touching his shoulder, "there's no use fighting decisions already made, deeds already done. As Keely said, let's put Maeve down below. The children, too. They'll be safe there. Then we can see what's to be done next."
Sinbad bows to the calmer voice of reason. He nods to the door and Niall opens it, allowing Sinbad to duck into the galley with Maeve in his arms.
"Let me take the little one," Wren says behind him. "She needs to be fed."
"She's wet, too," Mia says without arguing with her aunt.
"We can fix that. I'm sure we can find something here to use."
There's no lighted lantern in the galley, but a golden glow shines under the door to Sinbad's cabin. He frowns. Rongar has the right to use the captain's cabin while he's away, but everyone knows better than to leave a flame lit when no one's aboard. He's halfway to the door when it slams open and Firouz appears, wary and tense, saber held firmly in his hands.
"Get back!" the scientist bellows. "These aren't possessions, they're people. I'll fight to the death for their right to remain free!"
"Easy, man!" Sinbad steps into the light, careful to keep away from the inventor's blade.
Firouz visibly relaxes as his danger instinct eases. "Oh, it's you," he says. Then his rational mind kicks in. He blinks. Blinks again, visibly struggling to take in the small crowd of people behind his captain, the woman cradled in his arms. "Maeve! It's wonderful to see—but you're not pregnant. And who—what—ah—what—"
"At ease, Firouz." Sinbad would be amused right now, but he just doesn't have the time. He pushes forward into his cabin. He missed his crew more than he can express, but he's too worried about Maeve and doesn't have space for anything else inside him. "Maeve's hurt. Just let me—" His voice fails him when he shoulders into his cabin.
Two figures lie side by side on his bunk—two people he knows, but never honestly expected to see again. Especially not tonight. Especially not here. "What—" He struggles for words, just as tongue-tied as his scientist.
A breathy little noise leaves Maeve, as if someone knocked the wind out of her. She struggles to be put down. Numbly, Sinbad complies. Two faltering steps bring her to the edge of his bunk. She collapses on her knees next to it, her head pressed close to her sister's. "Ness." Her voice tears from her, a strangled croak. "Ness. Keel, get in here."
Keely pushes past Sinbad and instantly goes still. He hopes she's not prone to fainting; she's a tiny thing, but ungainly with that huge belly. If he tries to catch her, they're both going down.
The moment feels like an age. Firouz shrinks back against the door as Wren peeks through and sucks in a breath. "Niall, it's them. It's Nessa and Antoine." She pushes Fin into Sinbad's arms but doesn't shove past Keely to reach her missing family members. She doesn't touch Keely at all, watching her carefully, as Sinbad is doing. He wants very much to back quickly out of his cabin and shut the door, leave the moment to Maeve and her siblings. He's part of this clan now, but he feels like an intruder and he can tell from Firouz's face that his scientist does, too.
Keely steps forward, then halts. Wren does not follow.
"What—ah, what happened? Shouldn't she be as big as her sister by now?" Firouz asks hesitantly, looking uneasily at Maeve. Sinbad turns, exposing the newborn held close to his chest. Firouz's eyes widen and his mouth shuts, which is exactly what his captain intended.
"Keel, something's wrong with them." Maeve wraps shaking arms around Nessa's unconscious form, stroking her tangled hair, kissing her forehead.
"I told you there might be a surprise," Doubar mutters weakly from the galley.
"Light a lamp and hush," Cairpra admonishes him. "Make yourself useful here or go to your crew's aid."
Keely's shoulders twitch violently, just once. Then she's up, climbing onto the straw mattress, standing imperiously over the two forms on the bed. Antoine sits up. He looks terrible, gaunt and haggard, his sepia skin decidedly blue-gray in cast. That face Sinbad was so used to seeing curled in a broad grin now sits heavily lined as he lifts his arms toward the woman carrying his son. He's sitting upright on his own, but he sways as his arms rise in supplication. It looks like a prayer.
She kicks him in the side.
He drops with a grunt but, unbalanced, so does she, falling to her knees, her arms supporting her heavy belly.
"How dare you?" Usually her pitch rises with her anger, but in this moment she does not sound like a small child. She sounds like what she is—a woman pushed near to breaking and not inclined to be forgiving.
Antoine finds his way upright again and cups her face with his hands. He's a braver man than Sinbad, who wouldn't dare touch her in this moment. He wouldn't dare touch Maeve, either, if she spoke to him in that voice. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But she needed me."
"I needed you!"
"I know. But I had to make a choice." His voice sounds like dust on gravel; the words barely come.
Maeve shakes at Nessa's side. Sinbad can't tell if she's crying. He holds Fin to his chest and rocks her gently. She hasn't made a peep since they reached the Nomad; he hopes she likes the feel of the water, the waves buoying her steadily. This will be her home, once she and her mother are healthy enough to return.
"You chose wrong." Keely shakes Ant's hands away. "Get off of me."
"I swore to my parents. Swore to always protect her. You know how vulnerable she is," Ant says brokenly.
"You swore to me, too. When I agreed not to follow Maeve and Dermott. When I agreed to stay. You swore I'd never regret that choice."
Maeve is a rose: she must be handled with care, but she's a treasure Sinbad knows is worth the thorns. In this moment, Keely is a wicked bramble thicket with no way in and no apparent benefit to trying. But Antoine doesn't see it that way. He presses his forehead to hers, holding her face in his big hands. "You're stronger than she is. I knew you could handle it. Ness couldn't."
Keely shoves him hard, tearing herself away. "You don't get to make those decisions on your own!"
"Keel, please," Maeve says softly. "It's iron. I can taste it on her. Kill him later. Ness needs you."
"Daidí!" Mia shoves past Wren's legs at the sound of her father's voice.
"Sweetheart," Wren says, reaching for her, "I don't know if you should—"
But Mia pulls away from her aunt, padding softly to the edge of the bed. She takes in Nessa's still form, Maeve's forehead pressed to hers, her hand stroking her hair. She looks at her kneeling mother. And her father. She knows he left to follow Nessa, and has weathered this abandonment alongside her mother and sister without much protest. Lily fought her father's disappearance. Mia seemed made of sterner stuff.
Until now.
Antoine's face collapses. He adores this kid—Sinbad knows he does. He's seen the man's devotion through countless little interactions. It was Antoine's absolute love of his daughters that initially calmed Sinbad's fear of having his own. If Ant could do it, could parent two vulnerable little girls in this bloody, terrifying world, Sinbad figured he was man enough to attempt with one.
"Mia." Antoine's voice rushes out of him, a plea, a prayer.
She refuses his outstretched hand. Slowly, she shakes her head. "No." She swallows hard and steps backward, her bare feet little but her step unfaltering. "No."
"Mia," Wren tries gently, but the girl pushes past her aunt.
"No!" she insists as she flees into the galley. "That's not my daidí!"
"And that," Keely says, staring into her céile's eyes, "is why you had no right to do what you did." She heaves herself awkwardly to her feet and steps down off the bunk, settling at Maeve's side, ignoring Antoine as if he no longer exists.
"Mia." Wren turns toward the galley.
"Give her space. She'll come to me when she's ready," Keely says firmly. "Light a light, tend to Fin. I've got plenty to do here." She touches Nessa's cheek and hisses. "Cairpra, what do you know about iron poisoning?"
That she's asking for Cairpra's opinion tells Sinbad Nessa's condition isn't good. "What are these two doing in my cabin?" he demands of Firouz.
"Ah...that's a rather long and complicated tale, and I'm not entirely sure of all the details myself, to be completely honest…."
"Big picture—tell me quickly. Maeve needs to be settled, and from what I hear Rongar needs our help. Hurry."
"Big picture. Yes." Firouz's eyes scrunch in his characteristic scholarly squint. Fuck, Sinbad has missed that. He's missed a lot of things about his people, his life. "Rongar's a prince. We didn't come here intending to foment rebellion and forcibly take his throne back, but it seems we've inadvertently done so. There was a soothsayer and the Nomad was seized and—"
"Wait, what? A prince? You want to run that by me again?" Sinbad shakes his head swiftly. "No, never mind. Forget that. What about these two?" He nods over Fin's head at the bed, where Cairpra now stands deep in conversation with Keely, Maeve interjecting wearily every now and then as she hovers protectively over their unconscious sister.
"I'll take her back, Sinbad," Wren says softly, offering her arms for Finleigh once more. "I started water heating. Niall found some linen in Maeve's cabin. I'll feed and change her, and she can have a bath."
Sinbad kisses his daughter's head and hands her to her aunt. "Thank you." He'd happily bathe and change her himself, but it sounds like Rongar and Talia may be in over their heads and he needs to help as soon as he can get Maeve settled and an assurance from Keely that she'll be all right.
"Today is Samhain, I'm almost certain. I thought I was keeping accurate count of the days," Firouz says, staring at the baby, his eyes troubled. "But I must have been mistaken…"
"You weren't, but there's no time. Explain the guests in my cabin, and then we need to go." Sinbad watches how Maeve's arms tremble as she holds her unconscious sister. Nessa needs urgent care, but so does she.
"They were prisoners—pets, really, though I shudder to say so—of Rongar's usurper. He put them in an iron cage. I had no idea iron could potentially act as a toxin, but I can't argue with what my eyes see." He sounds infinitely troubled. "Doubar stole a magic sword and Rongar cut us all free. Zorah cast an enchantment that temporarily strengthened these two, and we were able to help them to the ship. We all agreed it was the safest place for them to wait out the fight." Firouz frowns. "Dermott wanted to stay to look after them, but—"
"Dermott?" Maeve whirls, and the sudden movement nearly knocks her flat. Were she standing, Sinbad is positive she would have fallen. He curses and is at her side in an instant, lifting her firmly into his arms.
"You need to lie down. I wanted you in here, but your bunk is better than the floor. We'll go across the galley."
"No." She pushes at him. "What about Dermott?" she demands, her eyes frantic.
"Ah…" Firouz's voice fails him when confronted with the desperation in Maeve's face.
"Maeve isn't going anywhere," Keely snaps. "She and Nessa both need me. He," she points imperiously at Antoine without looking at him, "isn't so bad. He can move his ass somewhere else. Overboard, for all I care." She shoves him hard. "Get up. Move. Get out of here."
"He's poisoned, too," Firouz objects even as Antoine slowly complies, each movement looking excruciating. Even still, he obeys Keely without a voiced protest, only the pain in his black eyes.
Keely ignores Firouz's protest. "Can you do anything for them?" she demands of him. "Can your science help?"
"No," he admits. "Not as such. I can—"
"I want to know about Dermott!" Maeve insists.
"He wanted to stay," Firouz says, looking thoroughly overwhelmed as both sisters grill him, vying for his attention. "He wanted to watch over her." He nods at Nessa. "But Rongar needed help, and Dermott couldn't do anything for her."
"If Rongar needs help, what are you doing here?" Sinbad demands, refusing to put Maeve down. He can smell blood as clearly as Keely can. She badly needs her sister's care, and he's running out of patience.
"Rongar told me to watch over them!" Firouz protests. "To do what I could for them. He's captain while you're away, so I obeyed. Science can't mitigate poison absorbed through the skin, the blood. I wish it could, but there are limits to every discipline, even mine. I did my best to make them comfortable, gave them food and water, made sure there was no iron in the cabin. When Zorah's spell wore off they collapsed, but I kept watch. I did my best."
Sinbad is instantly sorry for snapping at his inventor. Rongar's orders are no different than his likely would have been under the circumstances, and it's not in Firouz to disobey without great cause. He still doesn't understand any of this, but there's no time for detailed explanations.
"Dermott," Maeve insists.
"Not now." He can't stand denying her, but he has no choice. She deserves these answers, but she'll have to wait. "I want the women and children to stay with the ship—no arguing. Maeve, you're in no condition to fight and your sisters aren't trained to. Cairpra, I have no right to order you, but your gifts are needed here."
"Certainly they are," she agrees. "I can do little for Maeve, as I am not a healer by trade, but I can help this one." She touches Nessa's elbow gently.
He inclines his head to her in thanks. "Niall, I can't order you, either, but you're not a trained fighter."
"No," the man says, "but Dermott is my brother, and so are you. If the two of you are fighting, I will as well. A rebellion by definition means untrained men fighting with improvised weapons. I can't be any worse than the rest."
"Are you sure?" Wren asks, her hand on his cheek.
"Aye." He smiles at her. "You're safe enough with the sorceresses. And if the ship is compromised, you have an opal. You can always retreat if need be."
"Be careful." She kisses him gently but does not argue his wish to fight.
"Bring Dermott back to me." Maeve grips Sinbad tightly, her dark eyes pleading and intense in her stark white face. "I didn't know—I can't feel—"
"Shh." He kisses her mouth, tasting her distress, wishing he could calm it. "I'll make you a deal. I'll come back to you, and bring your brothers with me. But you have to hang on for me." Fuck, he doesn't want to leave her. She was nodding in and out of consciousness before the shock of seeing her siblings brought her around again, and he knows that's not a good sign. She needs to relax and let her sister care for her. "Do you want Firouz to stay and help? Is there anything he can do for you?"
"Absolutely not," Keely answers for her sister. "I neither want nor need some bumbling man butting in where he's not welcome, and if you think about it, neither do you. Help me shift Ness over, Sinbad, and put Maeve here. There. I have Cairpra and my apprentice. We'll have things well in hand soon. These are my sisters and this is my province, not yours."
"And I have Fin," Wren says from the galley. "Mia's under the table. We'll be fine."
Mia is not fine, and Sinbad has grave doubts about Maeve and Nessa and even Keely as well, but he holds his tongue. Keely is in a foul mood after seeing Antoine and she won't tolerate Firouz's innocent nosiness right now. "You're with us, then," he tells the inventor, deliberately ignoring Doubar. He rests an arm over Firouz's shoulders and propels him out of the cabin. The man is taking all of this extremely well, considering. "Explanations later," he promises everyone, including himself. "Right now I just need to know where to point my blade." In truth, he's itching for a fight. Any fight will do.
"Ali Rashid's mercenaries all wear grey cloaks like that," Firouz says, pointing to the one around Doubar's shoulders. "They're not hard to spot. Rongar went after Ali Rashid himself, and Talia followed. She's been calling him 'dickless' for some reason and she swears she'll make it truth before the day's out."
"Well, the day's out and they're not back, which means they need help," Sinbad says firmly. "Let's go."
"Take this," Maeve says, fumbling with her belt and handing her sheathed sword to him. "Niall may not be trained, but he needs a weapon."
Oh, Sinbad doesn't like that. She may not need to be armed at the moment, but he doesn't like her giving that particular blade to someone else. It was Dermott's before it was hers, he knows, but she's had it at her side as long as he's known her, and it's part of her—the straight, double-edged western blade, intricate blue knotwork enameled along the steel. But she's not budging on this, and he doesn't have any better option to insist on. They have no spare swords lying around the ship. He could arm her brother with a harpoon or improvise something else, but the sword is better, even if he isn't trained to use it as she is.
"Just don't let him chop his own hand off," she says as Sinbad takes the sword and belt. "That thing's heavier than it looks."
It is, especially compared with his own shorter, curved blade. A burst of pride runs through him as he bends and kisses her once more, his mouth meeting hers in a hard, brief kiss. His sorceress is a warrior in her own right, exceptionally strong. That blade wasn't sized for her; it's meant for a large man, yet she handles it with precision. "I'll bring him back to you," he promises again. Both Niall and the bird, if he can manage it.
"I know you will." She nips his lip, then pushes him away with a shaky hand. "Go. I did my part. Your turn now. You've been itching for a fight."
He has, and a rising, feral glee fills him at the prospect of one. He didn't get to fight Scratch, but he can help Rongar now. "You'll stay? You won't come tearing after me?" It's not like her to pass up a fight, either, but she can barely stand.
"Would you get out of here already?" Keely snaps, pulling Maeve's boots from her feet. "Lift your knees, put your feet flat. Let me see what I'm doing."
Yeah, that's Sinbad's cue to get the men out of here.
"Are you kidding?" Maeve rests her head back on his pillow. "I told you, I did my job. I want my kid and a bath. Otherwise, I'm not moving for at least a week." She settles her body more comfortably against the straw mattress and obeys her sister. "You go save Rongar."
Sinbad allows himself one final glance around his cabin. Maeve rests in his bunk, finally where she belongs. Nessa sleeps beside her, Cairpra attending the unconscious woman. Keely sits at the end of the bunk, waiting impatiently for him to leave. Behind him in the galley, he hears Wren cooing gently to Fin as she washes her. Antoine is across the galley in Maeve's cabin, but he was able to walk there on his own. He's sick, but not so bad as his sister. They'll be all right, so long as Keely and Cairpra are able to heal Maeve and Nessa. There's nothing more he can do here, so with a nod to his men Sinbad heads for the deck.
"What...ah, what happened today?" Firouz pants slightly as they barrel up the hill toward the fighting, he and Sinbad in front, Niall and Doubar just behind. Sinbad fully intends to ignore Doubar's presence as much as possible. He won't attack the man, for Maeve's sake, but that doesn't mean he wants him here.
"Too much," he answers, watching as the walls of the city come into view, bathed in lantern- and torch-light.
"I mean...are you...Scratch...the child…." Firouz stammers, unable to turn his questions into full sentences.
Sinbad smiles in spite of the situation. "My Fin was born early, but she's strong. She'll be fine. And Maeve won, despite everything."
"She looks terrible, Sinbad."
"Keely will help her." Her sister's in a foul mood, but she's not hovering at the edge of panic as she was the day Maeve appeared at Breakwater after Doubar's attack. This gives him faith. Maeve may have a long recovery ahead of her, but he'd know by Keely's demeanor if he had to fear worse. Ordinarily he'd be having a fit, refusing to leave her side, but he knows Keely's moods by now, and trusts her knowledge. And once this situation with Rongar is settled, he'll head back to Breakwater with the rest of the clan, ready to wait on his sorceress hand and foot while she recovers. He'll do whatever she needs, take over all of Fin's care so she can rest. Truly rest, this time, without the threat of Scratch hovering over them. She can take as much time as she needs. He's more than content.
"I'd tell you to stay close to me," he calls back to Niall as they near the first eddies of the mob, "but that will be impossible in a minute. Just don't get yourself killed."
Niall draws Maeve's sword with admirable dexterity for a man never taught to use one. "How different from a scythe can it be?" He grins.
"Wheat doesn't fight back when you cut it." Sinbad gauges the crowd. "Where's Rongar, Firouz, if you had to lay odds?"
"In the palace," Firouz says. "I told you he and Talia went after Ali Rashid. Be careful; Rumina's around somewhere, too."
Sinbad isn't concerned, though he guesses maybe he should be. He no longer wears Scratch's brand, which makes him feel invincible. With a grin, he lunges into the melee.
The fight, from what he can see, is extremely lopsided. Ragged, sickly looking men and women on the one side struggle against trained mercenaries on the other. The rebels hold better weapons than Sinbad counted on—swords and pikes and battleaxes, not kitchen knives and pitchforks—but they're untrained. Their lack of physical strength and stamina plus the ragged clothes they wear tell Sinbad these are prisoners, but there are far more than he's used to seeing even in a large city like Baghdad. Their spirit remains strong even as they fight by torchlight, even as their numbers diminish as the mercenary troops cut through their ranks. Sinbad understands. These people have nothing left to lose. They're fighting for their lives, while their adversaries fight only for coin. It's the only reason they stand any chance at all.
He ducks into the palace, slamming through a huddle of four soldiers and ducking inside a stone corridor. Pale yellow stone archways give way to rich walls lined with colorful mosaics and priceless tapestries, but he has no time to admire the beauty of the building. He climbs a steep spiral staircase and enters a large hall. There are no thrones, but this chamber is too large for anything but the prince's receiving room. Rich cushions and low tables litter the large expanse. Pausing near the entryway, Sinbad spies a flash of movement as someone disappears through a smaller doorway. He leaps a table, dodges two more, and catches up with a woman in swift retreat.
She wears green silk, and not very much of it. Dark eyes widen when he catches her shoulder and forces her to halt.
"The prince will—" Her protest dies on her lips as his appearance registers. "You. You're Sinbad. You're the hero everyone's been searching for."
"I am," he confirms, releasing her bare shoulder now that she seems less likely to run. He appraises her cautiously. She's dressed in fine silk and large amounts of gold, and a woman so scantily clad wandering the halls of a palace can mean only one thing. The question is whether the prince's harem remains loyal to him in the face of obvious rebellion by his subjects.
"Doubar said you were not here."
His jaw clenches at the mention of his brother. "I wasn't. Now I am. Mind telling me what's going on?"
Her mouth twists. He's usually extremely good at reading people, but he's not sure what sits behind that expression other than scorn. "A hopeless endeavor by dead men walking," she says.
Sinbad's hand hovers near the hilt of his saber, though he doubts this girl is any sort of physical threat. He can see the softness of her slinky frame, the way she balances herself on her golden sandals: she's a dancer, not a fighter, trained in an entirely different physical art. Maeve stands firmly planted on the earth even when not fighting, as perfectly balanced as her sword, and as dangerous. This girl shifts with fear.
"Do you know Rongar?" Sinbad takes a chance. Ordinarily the females of a wealthy harem would be kept away from all strange men, but this one is outside the boundaries of where she ought to be.
"I know of him," she deigns to admit, her sharp dark gaze raking down Sinbad's form, sizing him up as quickly as he sized her. "We haven't met."
"So you don't know where he is?"
"I might have a few guesses." She steps closer, dark eyes unafraid as her breasts barely graze his chest. "Why?"
Sinbad takes a very deliberate step backward, the corners of his mouth twitching with displeasure. He's not interested in playing games with a concubine. He hasn't been interested in these sorts of games for quite a while now. Maeve is all the woman—and intrigue—and trouble—he wants. "Because he's my brother," he says firmly.
"I thought the giant mountain of a man was your brother?"
Sinbad is very careful not to let his face change, but he scowls internally. He doesn't quite dare refute Doubar's claim to brotherhood right now when he doesn't know this girl or the extent of her dealings with his crew. But he's not happy at the reminder. "I know where Doubar is," he says instead, which is more or less true; he left him back in the thick of the fight with the others. "I need to know where Rongar is. I was told he went after this Ali Rashid."
"Could be," the girl says. "What makes you think I know anything about it?" She steps closer again.
"Because you were skulking outside the harem, and any innocent concubine would know better than to do that, especially during a rebellion."
She lifts one delicate hand and rests it on his shoulder. "What will you give me for the information?"
He wraps his fingers around her wrist and removes the hand from his shoulder. He's very used to women acting like this and usually he's flattered and more than willing to lap up a little female attention, but honestly, he's just not interested. "I would think protection from this Ali Rashid would be return enough." He releases her wrist. "I don't know the man, but if my crew was willing to stir up a rebellion against him, that means he can't be good news."
The girl scowls, rubbing her wrist though he barely touched her. "He isn't. But his soldiers are going to win. I've already risked too much. Tell me why I shouldn't shout for the prince's guards now?"
"Because then you'll be found where you know perfectly well you're not supposed to be. I don't think you want that." One corner of Sinbad's mouth flickers, but there's no warmth to the gesture. "Where is Rongar?"
The girl's eyes flit across his face as she wavers. She's a lovely thing, flawless olive skin and cascades of long, dark hair, pampered and preened like any palace pet. But she's nothing to Sinbad. He just wants to find his missing crewmembers. He was far more tempted by Nessa's flirting, if he's honest, and he suspects he could have had her during the teas, were he and Maeve willing to share. But they weren't, and his opinion on that matter has not changed. He's a one-woman man for now, and this little concubine does not interest him.
"Make up your mind," he urges. "Either tell me where Rongar is or go back to the harem, where it's safe."
"You think you know me?" The girl's dark eyes blaze. "You think you know this place?"
"No," he admits evenly. "But I don't have to. We've done this before. I know how these things work, and I trust Rongar's judgment without question."
"You know how these things work?" the girl sneers. "Then tell me how a ragged bunch of half-dead prisoners win against Ali Rashid's mercenaries? Doubar insisted the free folk in the city would rise up, but so far only the children have answered the call. Their parents remain huddled in hiding like so many scared little rabbits! Fuck your Rongar, and your brother's promises!" Her eyes shine with bitterness. "Ali Rashid's men will slaughter everyone who stands against him, and let their bodies rot in the streets. And I will die a traitor's death for what I've done. So you tell me, hero, exactly how you think these things work?"
Sinbad takes her chin in his hand when she tries to pull away. "They work," he says firmly, staring into her bitter, resentful gaze, "not because good always triumphs over evil, but because when enough people believe in something, they can make it happen. Do you hear me? It's not always about having the stronger army. Sometimes it's about having the stronger heart." He releases her and steps back, looking her up and down. She's just what he saw before: a concubine or a lesser wife, beholden to this prince. But her presence outside the harem means there must be more to her than what he sees on the surface. She should be huddled with the rest of the prince's women, waiting to hear their fate. But she's not.
She stares back at him, unable to voice a bitter rebuttal to his words.
"Where is Rongar?" he asks evenly. "Or the prince? Either answer will do." He knows Rongar. If the Moor hasn't found the prince yet, he will soon. Rongar never loses his man.
This time, the girl points. "Up toward the parapets," she says, and the answer, though sullen, sounds truthful.
Sinbad nods. "Go," he says firmly. "Go back to your sisters. If you want a different life, a different fate, find something you can use as weapons, and go into the city. Convince the people to fight. They don't know my crew and may not heed the call of strangers. But you belong to the prince. If they see the prince's women in revolt, they will come."
"We don't know how to fight," the girl protests. "You'd send wives and concubines into battle? What kind of hero are you?"
"Not into battle. I want you armed so you can defend yourselves if need be, but you don't have to physically fight. You just have to go to the people. They know your position. They know what you stand to lose. That's your power. That's what you can lend to this fight, if you truly want to win." Sinbad holds her gaze for one more moment. He doesn't have more time than that. Whether she'll obey or not, he has no idea. But if this fight is as lopsided as she says, they need all the help they can get.
"I'm a slave," she protests. "I have no power."
"You belong in the palace. You have everything to lose. That gives you power, if you dare use it."
He has no more time to spare here. With a final nod to the girl, Sinbad darts away down the corridor. The parapets, she said. Up to the top of the palace. He runs swiftly, seeking stairs, always heading up, up, as high as he can get. The palace is large and sprawling and maddening, its layout following no logic he can fathom. These fucking castles are often this way, the original fortress added onto by generation upon generation, creating an architectural mishmash he'd love to tear down with his bare hands if he could, just to reach his crew. He feels like the last man in an elongated game of crack-the-whip, flung about here and there as Rongar chases Ali Rashid and Talia chases Rongar, Sinbad tearing after them all, desperate to catch up.
When he finally emerges onto the parapets, the flat walkway flanking the defensive walls of the palace, he's initially blinded by the soft velvet night. Two soldiers in grey cloaks lunge at him and he deflects them with a fighter's instinct but almost no sight. He relies on his other senses instead—his ears, his sense of space and the other objects in it. One man raises a heavy battleaxe over his head, using both hands as he draws back, preparing to strike. Sinbad slips in underneath, slicing his belly open as he glides to the side, out of the arc of the weapon. The squelch of entrails and a small huff of exhaled air are the last sounds the man makes before he crumples. His partner darts in, but by now Sinbad's eyes are beginning to get used to the darkness. He sees the glint of moonlight on steel just before the sword strikes; he rolls away and turns back even as he rises, settling in a defensive stance. His muscles sing as they welcome the motion, the thrill of adrenaline he's sorely missed. He cracks his neck and grins at his opponent.
"I don't believe we've been introduced. Name's Sinbad. I think you know my crew."
The man roars and attacks again. Sinbad parries easily.
"At least," he continues, dancing away and then back in, swords clashing, "you know the fight they picked with your master. Where is he, by the way?"
"Nowhere you're going, sailor scum," the mercenary growls, darting in again.
"Is that any way to treat a guest in this land?" Sinbad tisks at him.
The man roars and twists his blade, knocking free of Sinbad's hold. But he overbalances, tipping forward and flailing his arms as he seeks his center of gravity. Sinbad helpfully shoves with his boot, sending the man over the edge of the parapet. His howl echoes along the rocky shoreline far below.
A sharp cry down the walkway to his left makes Sinbad lurch. He staggers in the direction of the sound, and near a crooked joint in the rampart he stumbles across Talia holding her own against two more assailants.
"Mind if I cut in?" He pulls one off of her, propelling the man's forehead into the stone wall. The soldier collapses.
"You!" She grunts as she elbows the second mercenary in the gut. "Where have you been, you lazy sea slug? It's been dark for ages! I expected you here at sundown."
"That's news to me." Sinbad braces as two more mercenaries appear out of the darkness. "Do these guys always come in pairs?"
"So far," she agrees, slamming the hilt of her sword into the man's face with a sickening crunch. "Except the mob downstairs. They're just—" She curses as the wounded man's hand darts out, closing around her throat.
"A mob?" Sinbad offers, and jams his elbow into the man's kidney. He howls and drops like a rock.
"Oh, well done!" She rubs her neck with her free hand before turning to meet their new foes.
"What sort of trouble have you and Rongar got yourselves in now? I thought I was leaving my ship in good hands!" He parries the arcing blow of one sword and dodges the dagger the mercenary holds in his other hand.
"Hey, buddy, this time it wasn't my fault! This was all your man Rongar. Responsible, my ass. You should have given your ship to me."
"Not on your life." He darts in with a trick Maeve showed him—not that he'll ever admit it to her—and breaks the man's wrist with a deft little twist. The dagger drops from useless fingers. "I'm not stupid. If I gave the Nomad to you, I'd never get her back."
"Details." She waves this away before driving her fist into a guard's solar plexus. Despite his leather armor he gasps for breath, giving her enough time to draw her blade across his throat.
"Honestly, where is Rongar?" Sinbad ducks behind the final mercenary and hamstrings him. The man howls. He probably won't die from that injury, but he'll never fight again. Sinbad doesn't bother sheathing his sword, his ears on constant alert for any footsteps coming their way. "I have no idea what's going on, but I need to find him."
"He ran after that dickless prince, Ali Rashid, and I ran after him. He may have the right to kill the asshole, but I want my pound of flesh first." Her voice lowers with dark promise. Sinbad is impressed. It doesn't take much to rile Talia, but it does take a lot to piss her off this badly. She must have taken particular exception to being locked up, or else this prince did worse.
"This prince sounds like bad news."
Talia bends over, stretching her lower back and planting her hands on her knees as she catches her breath. "Very," she agrees. "Oh, and your kinky little voyeur of a sorceress is here, too, by the way." She spits over the edge of the rampart.
"So I heard. What does she want with a small-time local prince? She usually sets her sights on bigger targets." When she sets them on something other than Sinbad, that is. With him, it's personal.
"Eh...I wasn't entirely clear on that point. The prince had your hothead's hawk, and she thought she could use the bird to lure you, I got that much." Talia rights herself and wipes an arm across her brow, inhaling deeply. "But then there was a whole thing about a necklace and a flame-sword, and I honestly didn't care about the details."
"A flame-sword?" Sinbad pauses. That seems like a detail worth caring about. In fact, it seems like maybe more than a detail. Enchanted weapons are dangerous things to go up against, he knows from personal experience. He chucked the Sword of Hades into the sea after defeating its warlord owner, and that's where he'd prefer his involvement with magical weapons to end.
Talia waves his concern away. "Rongar has it now, it's fine."
That's better than their enemy having it, but Sinbad isn't sure it's actually "fine." "Where is he? Did you follow him up here?"
"Aye," she agrees. "How about you? Get that pesky brand removed? I assume so, since Scratch isn't, you know, devouring your soul as we speak."
A burst of pride fills him, as he suspects it always will when he remembers the fearless way Maeve faced down the arch-demon. "I'm free. She won."
Talia nods. "I knew she would. She's too stubborn to fail. That doesn't mean I like her, mind. Where is she, down in the fray with the others?"
"Not on your life. She'd be back in Eire if I had my way, but Doubar insisted that we had to come save your asses instead. She's on the ship, resting, as she deserves."
"Resting?" Talia raises an eyebrow. "After just a little run-in with a demon? Maybe she's weaker than I thought."
Sinbad regards the pirate with a dangerous gleam in his eye, a very clear warning. "My daughter also happens to be with her. Born yesterday. I'd be very careful tossing around words like 'weak' if I were you."
Talia shrugs. "Better her than me, I guess. If you were on the ship, you saw the fairies, yeah?"
"Aye. They don't look good."
"Zorah says they'll recover now that they're away from the cage." Talia stretches her arms above her head, twisting her spine from one side to the other. She shakes her head and her legs. "Ready to go find Rongar?"
"Who's Zorah?"
"His sister. Seriously, don't you know anything about the people you hire?"
"Do you, when you captain?" he shoots back.
She points to herself. "Pirate. I know better than to ask questions of the men willing to crew under me. But you're supposedly an honest sailor."
Yes, he is. He knew there was more to Rongar than met the eye, but he was content to let the man keep his secrets, as he was content to let Maeve keep hers. He values loyalty and trust among his crew, and that includes not invading their privacy. But it may be time to start asking questions of his silent brother.
Provided they can find him.
Maeve's eyes flutter slowly open as the feel of her sister's hands disappears from her skin. She's so fucking tired, still dizzy and beginning to feel ill, too, but she's not in pain anymore. She watches as Keely climbs awkwardly to her feet, hands at the small of her back, and stretches wearily.
"Oh, hell," her sister says, groaning. "This is the last one. No more babies."
Maeve blinks sleepily at her sister. "That's what you said last time." She didn't believe her then, either.
"Yes, well, I was still on speaking terms with their father last time." She catches Maeve's heels in her palms and gently tugs her legs down. "There. The night is nice and warm, but I'll get you a blanket anyway. You're still freezing."
Yes, Maeve knows full well she's still fucking freezing. She feels like she'll never be warm again, and she's so sick of it. "I want Fin," she pleads. She knows Wren is perfectly capable of caring for her daughter, but she wants her back. That's her kid, not her sister's. She went through too much keeping her daughter alive to turn away now, no matter how she felt when Fin was born.
"In a minute." Keely unfolds the woolen blanket from the end of Sinbad's bed and tucks it around her snugly. "There. I stopped the bleeding—fully this time—and cleaned you thoroughly. You tell me if you feel anything that may not be right."
Maeve listens to her sister with only half an ear, her eyes trained on Wren as she enters the cabin with Fin in her arms. There. There's her baby. She reaches for her, but Keely slaps her arms down.
"Don't you dare move. I've done what I can, but I can't replace the blood you've lost. I don't know anyone who can do that. You need to rest, and I'm fucking serious this time. Let Wren come to you."
Maeve scowls, but she's too fuzzy and dizzy to be properly irritated.
"Here." Wren rolls her eyes at Keely's grumbling and rests the sleeping newborn carefully on Maeve's chest. "She fell asleep quickly after nursing, so she can't be too upset despite the rough day."
Maeve settles her baby comfortably along the midline of her chest, stroking her velvet-soft head. Fin twitches, and one tiny hand curls into a loose fist. Maeve is convinced this is the most perfect baby she's ever seen, mother's bias be damned. She feels Keely plonk down at the end of Sinbad's bunk and pull one foot into her lap, rubbing briskly.
"I wish we had a better way to warm you up," her sister says with a scowl.
"I'd give almost anything for a hot bath," Maeve agrees, stroking her baby's curled fist. "I haven't had one in ages. Washing in bed doesn't count."
Keely tips her head to the side, considering. "Mia or I could heat the water."
"No tub. And we shouldn't waste the fresh water stores. Who knows whether we'll have a chance to onboard more before leaving this place?" Maeve's leg twitches when her sister's fingers rub a ticklish spot. "Quit that."
Keely switches to chafing the other foot. "Tell me why you like living on a ship again?"
Maeve laughs, feeling better than she has in...fuck, a long time. Too long. And she can't explain why the Nomad feels more like home than anywhere else in the world. Yes, it's small and dark, stifling hot during the day, and she and her crewmates live rough lives, often filthy, often fighting. They have to monitor their fresh water, their food stores, their coin, never sure of what the next horizon or harbor may bring. But that's the beauty of this life, too. Waking up each morning is an adventure. And Sinbad and his crew are her family, every bit as much as Keely and Dermott are. "You'll have to trust me on this," she says, smiling at her sleeping baby. "A ship has its moments." She yawns. "I'd kill for some desert sunshine right now. I swear I haven't been warm since I got lost between worlds."
"You have. More than you've been cold, in fact. That fucking bracelet just messed with you when Sinbad went too far, and now you've lost too much blood. You may be cold for a while as you heal."
"Don't slap that spell on me again," Maeve warns, watching her sister warily. She'll fight them on this if she has to.
Keely snorts. "I don't have the energy, even if I wanted to. That spell wiped all of us out for days—not just you and Sinbad, but me, Niall, Cara, Wren, and Brandon, too."
"Good. I love him and I don't mind being his chéile, but I don't want to be shackled so closely with him ever again. I need to breathe my own air." She shifts her weight against the straw mattress and all the muscles in her gut protest the movement. "Oh, hell. Ow."
"What did I say about staying still?" Keely snaps. "If you move too much, you could start bleeding again. Yes, we're back to that. I'm just as sick of saying it as you are of hearing it, so just stop."
"I thought I was done being a prisoner when Fin was born," Maeve grumbles, setting her mouth gently against her daughter's head. Finleigh smells sweet, like the orange blossom soap she swiped from Sultan Omar's palace. Wren bathed her well, then used some spare linen to fashion a clean diaper, nursed her, and now she's sleeping soundly once more. Her blanket has been washed and hung to dry and she's wrapped in an old ripped shirt of Sinbad's, happy and content. Her tiny lips part in her sleep, her eyelashes fluttering as she dreams.
"All women are different. I can't ever say for sure what recovery will be like, and you went and mucked it up by haring off when you were bleeding out." Keely scowls. "Some women can be up on their feet and back to work within hours of giving birth, but I never recommend it. That's why I stay over a day or two with my clients. They usually don't need me as a midwife or a healer after the birth, but they need an extra pair of hands around the house."
"I'm no weakling." Maeve scowls back at her sister. Women give birth every day. She figured it would be painful and unpleasant, yes, but that she would get over it quickly. She's never been laid low by her body like this before, and she hates it.
"If you were weak, you'd have been dead long before now," Keely says flatly. "Why do you think bleeding has anything to do with how strong you are? Do you think you can just will it not to happen?" She snorts. "I've seen women with half a dozen children suddenly laid low with an unexpectedly difficult birth. This has nothing to do with strength. Things wouldn't be so bad if you'd stayed at Breakwater today, and that's really the only part of this you had any control over. I know why you chose to leave, so don't start with me again. The fact remains that I would have caught the unnatural bleeding much earlier and stopped it long before it got to this point. You nearly died, and being tough couldn't save you. I don't know how to get that through your thick skull."
"I was still on my feet," Maeve grumbles, preferring to watch Fin sleep than argue with her sister, but she can't quite bear letting Keely have the last word.
"Barely. A feather could have knocked you over by the time you beat Scratch."
"But I did beat him," Maeve mutters, and leaves it at that. She knows leaving Breakwater was stupid. She knew it before she did it. But she had no choice. Not from her perspective. Losing Sinbad and letting Scratch win was not an option.
"And that," Keely admits, "is where your strength served you well. You can't strong-arm your body into handling birth better. But you could strong-arm Scratch into letting Sinbad go. And you did."
Maeve beams, feeling incredibly satisfied with herself. Yes, physically she feels awful. But inside, she's flying. She saved Sinbad's soul, and her daughter rests safe in her arms. Nessa lies beside her, unconscious but alive as Cairpra slowly feeds her a steady flow of energy to battle back the effects of the iron on her body. Antoine is sick, too, but again, he's alive and found. All she needs now are her men back safely—and Talia, she guesses—including Dermott, if he's here as Firouz said. She shifts her head on the pillow, sleep attempting to drag her under once more, but a wave of nausea rolls through her with the motion.
"What's the matter?" Keely asks, pausing her hands.
"Dizzy." Maeve closes her eyes, waiting for it to pass.
"Sip some water." Keely rises and offers a mug. "Maybe if we fill you full of water your body won't be so upset about the blood loss."
"Not the same thing at all," Maeve groans, but she obediently swallows when the mug touches her lips.
"No, but maybe we can trick it for a while. I wonder if that crackpot scientist of yours has managed to figure out how to move blood from one person to another without killing them both?" She holds the cup steady. "Easy now. When did you last eat?"
Maeve swallows. Her mouth feels so dry, but she can't honestly tell whether her belly is hungry. "Don't remember." She holds Fin's warm little weight on her chest and closes her eyes.
"We gave you caudle during labor. Was that the last? That was more than a day ago now."
"I don't remember caudle. I don't remember anything else, either." Maeve remembers pain, and the empty, hollow fury she felt when she knew she had failed Sinbad, failed Finleigh, by not being strong enough to keep their daughter inside for another two days. She remembers hating how his hands on her skin nearly broke her heart. She remembers blood, and the aching emptiness of the pain she knew would come. She doesn't remember anything else. These are not things she wants to be reminded of, and she frowns, blinking blearily at her sister.
"Food, then," Cairpra says gently, and Maeve suspects the older sorceress can sense her disquiet. "Cara?"
Cairpra's silent shadow slips willingly from her side, going in search of food. Maeve can't guess what she'll find. She's been away from the Nomad for too long. Rongar is responsible and conscientious, but whether he stuck to Sinbad's routine supplies she doesn't know.
Sinbad has a tiny desk and stool in his cabin, both marked deeply by Dermott's talons. Seeing those marks in the wood brings a thread of anxiety to the surface, all Maeve's exhausted body can muster. She's not really worried for Sinbad—he swore to her he would return from this fight, and she believes him. But she is unsettled knowing Dermott may be nearby—finally—though she can't sense him. Is it her own exhaustion barring her from sensing him, as she's so used to doing? Or is it something else? The question worries her. She wants him back desperately. He can be mad at her for the rest of his life if he wants. From his perspective, she chose Sinbad over him, and she knows this. She won't demand that he forgive her. She just needs him near.
"Mia?" Keely glances at the door.
"Still under the table," Wren says quietly. "Keel, I'm worried about her."
"I know." Keely stretches her shoulders. "But she's built like me. Nothing will change her mind until she decides to let it."
Maeve knows it's a terrible idea, but she can't help herself. She opens her mouth. "You need to forgive him, Keel." Her sister won't accept this truth from anyone else: not Wren, and certainly not Cairpra. It has to be her.
Keely's gift isn't fire, but the look she turns on her could melt steel. "Shut your mouth. You're barely forgiven, yourself." Keely's jaw hardens. "See that pile of blood-soaked linen? That's your smallclothes and all the rags you stuffed in them. They're covered in huge clots; do you know how dangerous that is? I'm shocked you're even conscious."
Maeve refuses to be distracted. "He was right. Not for abandoning you. Not for making that decision without you. But he was right that you're stronger than Ness is. You always have been."
"That child may not forgive unless you do," Cairpra adds, one eyebrow arching in Keely's direction.
"That child," Keely grits out, "is her own person and will forgive, or not, as she chooses. I am not the keeper of her heart. I never have been."
"No. But you may be the key to it." Cairpra desists, returning her attention to Nessa's still form. That's probably wise. Keely tolerates the old sorceress with grudging respect, but she will not tolerate any more nudging from her.
"Grumbling about choices already made does nothing to heal hurts," Wren says gently, though she rarely pokes her nose in the middle of fights between her more volatile sisters. Dermott used to. Nessa does. Wren usually knows better. But today, she chooses to speak. "I know he hurt you. I lived through it with you. But what's done is done, Keel. The question is whether you can live with it."
Maeve watches her sisters. Part of her expects Keely to blow. She's incredibly sensitive, massively pregnant, and does not tolerate prodding even at the best of times. But she doesn't blow. She tenses, and Maeve braces for the explosion. Then the fight bleeds out of her. Her shoulders slump, and she gives in to her softer sister where she refused for Maeve or Cairpra. "I can't answer that question yet."
Wren slips her arms around her shoulders. Keely, to Maeve's mild surprise, hugs her back. "That's fair enough."
Cara pokes her head hesitantly around the edge of the doorway. "There isn't much food. I can make barley gruel, or there's a barrel of pickled fish. That's all."
"Bring more water," Keely says, wiping her eyes, "and start enough barley for everyone. The fish is too strong, Maeve and Nessa won't be able to keep it down."
Cara disappears again.
"Come rest." Keely tugs at Wren's wrist. "You've been on your feet all day. Unless you want to go back to your boys? You can take my opal, if you do. We'll be fine with Maeve's."
"Bran and Dex can handle the younger kids for a night; they'll be fine. I'd rather wait to be sure Niall comes back unhurt." Wren casts an anxious look toward the deck, though no footsteps have sounded since the men left. "And there will be wounded to tend after the battle."
"Aye," Keely agrees. "It's going to be a long night."
"And day tomorrow," Cairpra adds. No one disagrees with her.
Wren sinks onto the straw mattress and presses close to Nessa. "Will she be all right, Cairpra? She was my first friend after I lost my clan. I want her back."
"In time." Cairpra squeezes the limp hand in hers. "Someone has been keeping the iron at bay. Not a trained healer, but someone with magic nonetheless. Whoever it is, they saved her life. She would not have made it this long otherwise."
"Do you have any idea what she was doing here to begin with?" Keely asks Maeve, but she's forced to shake her head. She wishes she knew. She wishes she knew all the answers—where Dermott has been and whether he really is here as Firouz said. Why Nessa and Antoine are here, and how the Nomad crew happened to find them. Hell, she'd love to know where the fuck she is, in fact. She's on the Nomad, and the night air is blessedly, velvety warm around her. That's all she knows.
"Mama?" Mia pads softly into the cabin. She's wearing Rory's clothes again, as she so often does, Maeve notes idly. Rory, with his sweet, loving little soul, slit his shirts down the back like Antoine's, though he has no wings himself. He did it for her.
"I'm here, ladybird." Keely offers a hand. Mia takes it, climbing onto the mattress. Sinbad's bunk was not made for the kind of group sleeping Maeve's clan sometimes indulges in, but they're used to worse than a little crowding and no one blinks as they make room for her. Mia kneels by Maeve's knees and wraps her arms around her seated mother.
"I'm really mad at him," she whispers.
"That's fine. He hurt you. You can be as angry as you want about that." Keely holds her firmly.
"But what if he gets mad and goes away again?" Mia bites her lip. "I don't want to talk to him. But I don't want him to leave."
"I don't think he will, not with Nessa here. But I can't promise he won't." Keely lets her daughter hide against her. "If he does, he never deserved you in the first place." She runs gentle fingers through Mia's shiny curls, traces the delicate sweep of her pointed ear with one fingertip. She's not often tender with her children, or with anyone. Maeve has never been prouder of her sister than in this moment.
"I feel like the cup Dex dropped on the hearth yesterday."
"I'm sure you do. I do, too, right now. But the thing is, we're not made of clay. You and me, ladybird, we're made of something stronger. And even though we feel like it, we're not broken. Not past mending. You will feel better again with time, I promise. Whether he goes or stays, this clan isn't broken. And neither is anyone in it."
Mia untucks from her hiding place in her mother's shoulder, lifting her face for a kiss, which Keely gives. "Don't leave me, mama."
"I won't. Not until you're ready."
It's a dangerous promise. Or is it? Maeve considers. She always assumed she wasn't ready when her mother left her. Keely, either. But they both survived. They're here. No adult on this ship has a living mother, yet they've continued on. They've thrived. No matter how much it hurt, maybe they were ready after all.
"I can be mad at him?" Mia asks.
"Of course. You take all the time you need."