A/N: Sorry for the wait this time; I lost a big chunk of this chapter when my laptop crashed. I didn't know that was possible while autosaving to the cloud, but apparently it is! We've still got a few chapters to go until the end - the bad guys have to get their comeuppance, after all, and there are lots of random loose ends to tie up. Thanks for reading!
The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
Earlier that day:
Rongar stretches slowly as his boots land firmly in the mud. He's been stuck in that damned cage with his crewmates for far too long, and while he feels uncomfortable wielding the Sword of Imra, he's grateful for its power. The magic of the sword buzzes along his arm as he holds the weapon aloft. It cut through cold iron like honed steel through flesh, and a burst of satisfaction filled him as he watched Firouz and Talia climb free before him.
Zorah embraces him hard as he exits his prison, her face pressing close to his behind its veil. "Brother." Her hands clasp his shoulders as she pulls away, her dark eyes shining clearly behind her veil. "I cannot tell you how to fight. I couldn't even begin. Just free the sìthichean and we will get them to your ship. You have enough to do without that worry."
He has more than enough to do. Striding swiftly to the cage across the way, he slices through the lock. It melts like aspic under the flames of the Sword. With barely throttled fury and disgust, he wrenches the door open.
"Can you cast your spell again?" Talia asks, eyeing the slumped figures. "I don't know if we can get them to the ship like this."
"I can carry her," Firouz says willingly.
"You will not." Dermott pounds with his fist on the bars of his cage. "Let me free! She came here seeking me—this is my fault. Let me do what I can."
The hawk has much more to atone for than the two dying fairies, in Rongar's opinion. He left his sister, breaking Maeve's heart and setting this whole mess in motion. If he had stayed, curbed his anger enough to speak with her, all of the ensuing trials could have been avoided. But the time for recrimination is past, and he gladly cuts his formerly-winged brother free. Now is the time to fight their common enemies, not each other.
Dermott drags himself to his feet, each movement looking incredibly painful, but he does not stop as he pulls himself from his cage and stands upright, blinking and squinting in the bright sun like a man with a terrible hangover.
He's filthy, long gnarled hair barely showing any glint of red, pale skin streaked with dirt and grime, his clothes no more than tatters hanging from him. He's been trapped in the body of a hawk for years, Antoine said, and Rongar is impressed that the man can even stand. He's large and heavily muscled, like Rongar himself, burlier than Sinbad but not a giant like Doubar. His human body remains contoured like a hawk's, his shoulders and pectorals huge and heavy with the muscle developed from years of flight, his legs slim, his bare toes gripping the ground oddly, as if he still wishes for the flexible feet and long, curling talons of the hawk.
Maeve is not a big woman, but she's tall and built like a warrior, and her brother is no different. Rongar can see the resemblance even as Dermott's face draws up in pain, his body lurching with the unfamiliar movements of a human anatomy. Once he gets over the change, he'll be as quick and powerful as his sister. The bone structure of their faces is the same, too, Dermott's features oddly beautiful despite their masculine cast. The way his jaw twists wryly is all Maeve, and that resemblance makes it easier to accept this stranger as the hawk Rongar has always known.
"Thank you, my friend." Dermott's bow is physically awkward but full of respect. Rongar returns it with an inclination of his own head. He may be willing to pummel Dermott later, depending on how Maeve feels when she sees her brother again, but this isn't the time. He sheathes the Sword of Imra at his side and watches with very mixed emotions as Dermott limps to the cage containing the sìthichean.
The former hawk drops to his knees like a man felled by a blow, leaning cautiously into the cage. One powerful arm rises, quivering like a sail in a storm as his dirty fingers brush Nessa's cheek.
"I ought to kill you for what you've done." Antoine's voice shakes as he forces his body into a seated position, leaning heavily on his arms.
"And I ought to kill you for what you did to Maeve, to Keely." Dermott glances at his brother, but gives the man only a moment before his eyes return to Nessa. "I won't, though. They're grown. They can deal with you as they please. Maeve will forgive you, though she might permanently maim you first. Keely may not take you back. You realize that, don't you?"
"I knew it before I left." Antoine's gaze falters. "You don't understand, and you will never understand because you're human. You are my ally, my brother, but this is beyond your ken. You will never be able to understand the reality of what being sìthiche means. I love Keely with everything I am, but she is not a target. She's not vulnerable as Nessa is. And I swore to our parents before they died, swore to protect my sister. To take care of her. When she ran, seeking you, I had no choice. I had to follow."
Rongar watches silently. He gets it, and he doesn't. He's human as well, and will never understand, just as Dermott will not, how it feels to be something so hated, so hunted. But Antoine had choices, no matter how much he tells himself otherwise. He didn't have to lash out at Maeve as he did, bringing her so low the crew feared she would not recover. He didn't have to abandon his family in the manner he chose. Those were mistakes he himself made, mistakes he himself will have to answer for.
Later.
For now, Nessa stirs slowly as Zorah's spell takes hold. "I can hold this for about an hour," she reminds them, as she did last night. "We need to get them to the ship, away from this iron."
"Can you even carry her?" Talia asks doubtfully, eyeing Dermott's unsteady balance as he slowly adjusts to his human body. "Maybe you should just let Firouz do it."
"Absolutely not." He scowls at the pirate, then touches Nessa's cheek again. "Féileacán. Can you hear me? It's me."
She stirs, blinking slowly, her lovely eyes opening. Rongar feels his ribs contract, his heart twisting at the look she gives Dermott. He turns away. This isn't a moment for witnesses, especially not him. Especially not knowing what Zorah told him before. He could have had this woman, but he would have sacrificed every iota of his integrity to take her. He couldn't bear to do that to her, to Dermott, or to himself. No. The intense light he saw in her eyes when they opened is for Dermott, and Dermott alone. He can respect that. He has to.
*Get them to the ship,* he signs to Firouz, sternly banishing all thoughts of Zorah's might-have-been from his head. *Stay with them. Take care of them.* He has faith Firouz can help them at least feel more comfortable, even if science can't alleviate the poison.
"Aye, captain," Firouz says hesitantly. "But...what about you?"
"He's going after Ali Rashid," Talia says confidently. "And I'm going with him."
*You are not. Fight with the prisoners, if you must.* Rongar is firm in this. Ali Rashid is his enemy, his problem to solve. Talia is a better ally than she thinks and a better person than she believes, and it's his fault she's here. She didn't deserve to be locked in a cage and threatened with beheading, and she doesn't deserve to lose her life to the most dangerous man Rongar has ever met. She can help his people if she wants a good fight, but otherwise she needs to stay out of it.
"Like hell I will!" Her hazel eyes snap dangerously at him. "Look, buddy, I've been patient. I let you lead, I babysat Doubar, I did what you asked. But you are not my captain, and this time I refuse." Hot amber bleeds into the cool hazel as she fumes. "That dickless prince is yours to kill—fine. I won't argue that. But I'm coming with you."
"It may be wise—" Firouz attempts to cut in, but Rongar shakes his head furiously. No. This is his task, and his alone.
*Go to the city,* he signs to Zorah and Talia. *Call the people. Tell them it's time.*
"I swear it, brother," Zorah agrees. "I'll call the people, and hold the spell on these two as long as I can."
"I'll call," Talia says sullenly, "but I won't stay. You think you can keep me from coming with you? I'd like to see you try."
They lock eyes for a long moment, both challenging, neither giving quarter. Talia is right: she signed no contract and is not a member of the Nomad crew, so he cannot order her to do anything. She's a captain in her own right, with her own ship, and what she does for Rongar and Sinbad she does for her own reasons, of her own free will. If she chooses not to obey, he cannot compel her.
But he refuses to back down, too. Ali Rashid is dangerous, and he's Rongar's to deal with. Talia can take out her frustrations on his mercenary soldiers in the city, but she's not joining the hunt for the prince.
Abruptly, without really considering his actions first, he strides toward her, lowers his head, and presses his mouth firmly to hers.
Talia shoves him away, as he more or less expected her to...but it takes a heartbeat longer than he predicted. She scowls at him. "Oh no you don't, buddy. That's how the hothead keeps Sinbad in line, but I'm tougher than our dear captain. You want to kiss me, you act like a proper pirate and get me drunk first. Even Sinbad knew that. You can't use it to distract me."
He grins. Talia is actually incredibly distractable most of the time, but not when she's bent on revenge and right now she's pissed at Ali Rashid for locking her in a cage, claiming women can't fight, and threatening to sell her to the highest bidder. She wants her pound of flesh and he understands...but he's still not bending on this. He shakes his head firmly at her.
"Tell me how you're gonna stop me, tough guy?"
A wry smile touches the corners of his mouth. He can stop her. This is his ancestral home, and he knows it far better than she ever will. With a final glance at Zorah and Firouz, he strides down the white gravel path towards the palace. His grounds. His palace. He can hear Talia's swift footsteps behind him as she struggles to keep pace with his much longer strides.
They reach the first courtyard without meeting any guards, which surprises Rongar, though he can hear the sounds of fighting from the city, where the prisoners massed after raiding the armory. He ducks around a stone pillar, then into the palace proper. He can feel Talia's presence behind him still, though out of sight for the moment. He twists a decorative flower carved in stone along the wall, and a section of rock slides away, revealing an entrance to the network of secret passages webbed through the palace. He slips in and closes it behind him, just before Talia rounds the corner and finds the corridor silent and empty.
Rongar gives her a silent apology as he runs his hand along the rough wall in the darkness of the secret passage. He's not trying to shelter her—she can have her fill of fighting today. Just not with Ali Rashid. He grew up in this palace, he and Zorah exploring these passages together as children. He knows every inch, every stair and turn, even in pitch darkness. This knowledge burns in his blood as the power of the Sword of Imra pulses at his side. He could draw the sword and have light, but he doesn't bother. He doesn't need it.
His feet lead him unerringly upward and westward, toward the expansive royal suite which used to be his father's. When his parents died he chose not to move into the king's royal chambers, perfectly content to remain in his own and not wishing to disturb memories of his parents. He has a feeling Ali Rashid has not done the same. As he climbs, his focus narrows. Gone are worries for the sick fairies, for Dermott weathering his transformation, for Talia following behind. Everything in him settles and tenses for this fight, for the final confrontation between himself and Ali Rashid. This is the end. One of them will die today, and Rongar bears the sword.
He smiles grimly as he exits the secret passage near the royal suite. As he suspected, two soldiers guard the double doors. They begin to draw their swords as they see him, but he's far faster than any mercenary. A dirk flies, embedding itself in the throat of one man. Blood bubbles from his mouth as he crumples, fighting for air. Rongar's fist crashes down on the other's temple and he falls instantly next to his comrade, his half-drawn sword useless at his side. Rongar's grim little smile does not fade. Ali Rashid was a fool. If he really wanted to keep Rongar from revenge, he should have severed his sword arm, or just killed him outright. He learned to live without a voice. He doesn't know if he would have been so successful without his dominant arm.
Pushing the door to the royal suite open, Rongar is accosted by a riot of rich fabrics and the gleam of gold from all directions. It looks almost like a dragon's hoard, the glitter of jewels and precious metals, heaps of velvet and silk, mostly in rich red hues. Rongar loathes it. He's never in his life considered what Ali Rashid's private apartments might look like, but somehow this is exactly what he expected. It's lavishly decadent far past the point of good taste, and Rongar feels his stomach churn at the thought of what the royal coffers must look like after three years of this, and how many of his subjects died to provide Ali Rashid with his hoard.
The first room is empty, but a small sound from the sleeping quarters beyond catches Rongar's attention. He moves silently toward the arched doorway, a moving shadow falling along the floor beyond. This is it. He can feel it. His body tenses, and his sword hand hovers near the hilt of the sword of Imra. He never wielded the enchanted blade before today, and he would prefer not to do so now. The sword is not his birthright, it's Zorah's. But she handed it over to him, and he was not stupid enough to refuse. He does not wish to drag out this feud or lower his odds of winning it. He'll take all the help he can get, so long as it places no innocents in danger.
When he reaches the doorway, he finds Ali Rashid on his knees, one hand scrabbling in the secret compartment in the floor where Rongar's father used to hide sweets for his young children, unbeknownst to their mother and nurse. He suspects he knows what his enemy is looking for. Rongar is likely wearing it.
His shadow falls over the kneeling man. Were he Sinbad, he would open his mouth in this moment with a cocky quip. But Rongar is not Sinbad, and he has not been able to joke with anyone in this manner since the man before him took his voice. Even if he could, this moment is far too serious for even the darkest humor.
Ali Rashid freezes as Rongar's shadow engulfs him. He does not look up immediately, but he knows who it is. He knows. A long, deep breath lifts his shoulders, his powerful back, as he stares at the empty hole in the floor.
"I will kill your sister for this," he says quietly. "In front of you. No one else could have done this."
That isn't true. How Doubar got the sword Rongar doesn't know, but he did it, not Zorah. Either way, the threat falls on deaf ears. Rongar isn't afraid. Zorah isn't near, and he has no intention of letting Ali Rashid get close to her ever again. This man is his.
Slowly, Ali Rashid lifts himself to his feet. Only then does he finally raise his head, his eyes fixing on his enemy. His black eyes snap bitterly, but his mien remains calm. He's a powerful man, almost as big as Rongar himself, and as he flexes and squares for the fight, no fear shows. He knows the sword at Rongar's side, knows it confers invincibility on its bearer, but he does not break and run.
"You think you won." He tilts his head ever so slightly toward the window, the sound of unrest in the streets audible over the crashing waves below. "But the people won't rise up. They won't follow you. You failed them before, and peasants have long memories for failure. Do what you please. They will not come."
"The prisoners have," Rongar mouths, unwilling to move his hand from the hilt of his sword.
"Let them riot. They are many but untrained and sickly. My men will have them in hand before sundown, and I'll have fewer mouths in the dungeon to feed."
Not that he was feeding them properly anyway. Rongar chooses not to believe Ali Rashid. The people may not trust him, but they have lived under Ali Rashid for three years. They've lived through what this man has done to them, to their home. They can't willingly choose to continue on like this, condemning themselves to certain ruin and likely death, can they?
Ali Rashid looks Rongar up and down. "Sailing with the legendary Sinbad agrees with you. You're stronger than you were before. You should have stayed at sea."
Rongar refuses to take the bait. Sailing is what he's always wanted to do, and what he plans to continue doing once he's rid his kingdom of this plague. Ali Rashid does not need to know this, however. He doesn't need to know anything about Rongar's plans, because he will not see the light of another day.
"You never occupied the royal suite, did you?" Ali Rashid glances sidelong at the rich furnishings surrounding him without moving a muscle in his body. "You stayed elsewhere. All the furniture here was covered in white cloth and hadn't been used since the old ruler and his wife passed." A cruel smile flickers over his mouth. "I had it burned, of course. Everything—all your father's furniture, all his clothing."
Rongar forbids himself from moving a muscle or showing one flicker of distress, which is exactly what Ali Rashid wants. Generations of his family were conceived, sometimes even born, in that bed. Now that link with his family's history is gone forever. But he and Zorah still survive, living ties to the past, and one or both of them may yet marry and produce heirs, a new generation. Ali Rashid can burn this whole fucking palace down, leave it a blackened skeleton of stone, and he still will never erase this family so long as Rongar and his sister survive.
"I usually tire of this game after a few years and move on to a fresh target," Ali Rashid says. "Once I've bled the people dry, I let those who remain scrabble to piece together what scraps I've left them. But not this time." His cold eyes burn. "You and your farseeing sister fought me, and I will see this island fall permanently in retribution. I will raze the towns, sow the fields with salt. No weed will grow, no bird will dare alight on these shores again when I'm through. And it will all be because of you."
Rongar is done listening to these empty boasts. Life is resilient—the human spirit is resilient. Ali Rashid can't kill it, even if he tries. Rongar and Zorah are living proof.
"You think you've won because you wield that sword and freed yourself from my menagerie. Well, I have news for you, has-been prince. I took the liberty of installing some protective measures in this palace for just such an occasion." He slides his foot to the left and his heel slams down on a piece of rich wooden inlay. The golden wood gives, and a trap door in the ceiling above opens, a sheet of incredibly heavy canvas billowing down on top of Rongar.
The Sword of Imra is out in a moment, slicing through the heavy fabric, cutting Rongar free, but all Ali Rashid needed was one moment of distraction. Rongar roars with fury as he shoves the canvas away, revealing a room that now stands empty. He didn't feel Ali Rashid pass through the doorway, which means his usurper must have installed a secret exit from this room. There wasn't one before—Rongar knows this palace from foundations to parapets. With a burst of fury, he rushes for the door.
Maeve jolts awake, knowing she hasn't slept long. Finleigh remains cuddled sweetly on her chest, her female family members deposited around her in repose, mindful of her injured body. She remembers swallowing a little barley, barely able to finish what Keely insisted before sleep forced her under. She slept lightly despite her exhaustion, hypervigilant for any noise from the deck above, friend or foe, and this is what dragged her from the sweet arms of sleep. She can sense the change even before her brain registers the noise that brought her awake.
"...but the other kids are fighting!" a high, piping voice protests as footsteps echo above.
"They may do as they please. You may not," an unfamiliar woman responds.
Keely, sprawled across Maeve's calves, scrambles awkwardly upright. "Don't you dare even think about moving," she hisses at her sister.
"I don't know them!" Maeve hisses back. This is Sinbad's ship, and no one she doesn't know should be aboard.
"How much danger can one woman and kid pose?"
Maeve lifts an eyebrow at her sister. She's one woman with a kid, and she's plenty dangerous. She proved that today.
"Yes, yes, you're very scary." Keely rolls her eyes. "But I mean normal women with normal kids, genius. These two don't sound like trouble."
"How would you know?" Maeve mutters, struggling to ignore her warring instincts and just obey her sister. It's true she's in no shape to fight anymore today. Or the coming week, most likely. Her palm splays over Fin's back as her baby sleeps. The voices above may not sound like trouble, but she's always been her family's physical defense. She hates her inability to be that now.
"You're not my mother!" the kid above whines.
"No, but if you were hurt in that mess I'd never forgive myself. Your father willed himself to stay alive in Ali Rashid's dungeon, fed himself on the hope of seeing you again. What would it do to him if he found you dead at the end of this fight?"
Maeve tenses as the galley door opens, its hinges squeaking. Keely smacks her thigh soundly. "Don't you dare!"
"I'm not doing anything!" Maeve scowls. This isn't Keely's world, it's hers. Her sister has no idea what danger looks like here, and Maeve has met too many dangerous women to trust a voice merely because it's female. She needs a good look at the strangers first, needs to sense them with her magic, her intuition. Until then, she refuses to relax. "There's a dagger in my boot. Grab it, at least, if you won't let me up."
Grumbling, Keely feels in Maeve's empty boots. "Nothing there, you dope."
Shit, she forgot. She left it thrust in the ground at Brí Leith, coated in her blood. Wonderful. That means she'll have to get a new one. A grim smile touches the corners of her mouth. There will be plenty of weapons without owners at the end of this battle; she'll make Sinbad bring her a replacement.
"Honestly," Keely continues to grumble as Wren climbs to her feet and even Nessa stirs. "We're all here, and we have two opals. We could disappear in an instant were there any danger."
She's neglecting the man lying alone across the galley in that reckoning. Maeve refuses to ask whether that omission was accidental. She holds Fin as firmly as she dares, feeling the bodies around her tense as footsteps near the cabin.
"Firouz?" the stranger calls softly. "Firouz, it's Zorah. I came to check on Nessa. How does she fare?"
Keely opens the door before the stranger can do it, poking her head into the darkened galley. "He went to join the fight. Who are you?" She's blunt as always as she swings the door wide.
While her sister's attention is elsewhere, Maeve shifts her body into a more upright position. She rests her head and shoulders against the wall behind her, feeling Cairpra's eyes but ignoring the silent rebuke from her mentor. Her head spins and her belly protests, but she feels better after food and a short nap. She's not willing to face a stranger while completely supine. Fin yawns as she shifts her, protesting sleepily, but she quiets easily when Maeve rubs her back. She's remarkably even-tempered, which Maeve did not expect from any child of hers. She must take after Sinbad in that respect, which is probably a blessing.
Keely backs away from the door and a moment later the stranger enters, followed by a skinny, ragged girl a few years older than Mia. Maeve's niece perks when she sees the other kid, lifting her head from Nessa's hip, a gleam of interest shining in her bright green eyes.
The unknown woman wears the heavy robes and veil of the faithful, only her eyes and a narrow strip of smooth forehead visible behind the rich orange and rust-red fabric. She halts nervously just inside the doorway and inclines her head respectfully to the cluster of women. "I apologize," she says swiftly. "I mean you no harm. I feared for Nessa and Antoine, and wished to keep Zainab out of the fighting as well. Please, where is the man? He didn't go to fight with Firouz, too, did he? He is not well."
"He's just across the galley." Maeve waves her hand in the direction of her own cabin—Fin's cabin now. "Sinbad wouldn't have let him go if he tried." He would have forbid Antoine to fight in his condition, just as he forbade Maeve. She herself would far rather be out in the battle. It's not in her to just sit back and wait for the men to return. But she also dutifully recognizes the limits of her body now that her quest to save Sinbad has ended. If she kills herself trying to fight those limits, she'll have squandered the gift Midir and Étaín gave her.
"I am Zorah," the woman says. The girl at her side stares back at Mia, intrigued by the little girl with pointed ears and dragonfly wings, but unafraid. "My brother, Rongar, sails with you, bright one."
Maeve returns Zorah's respectful bow of the head, though it makes her dizzy again. She's too tired to be shocked by anything today, even the appearance of a sister Rongar has never once mentioned. Who is she to judge? She kept a whole clan secret, including the true identity of the hawk always at her side. Not one of her crewmates knows what Dermott really is. Sinbad does, but only because Antoine has a big mouth. She didn't tell him herself. "Maeve," she tells Rongar's sister. "My name is Maeve." She strokes Fin's head as her newborn stirs again. "This is Finleigh."
"You are the power I sensed." Cairpra's voice rings with deep satisfaction. "You kept the sìthichean alive when iron would have killed them."
"I did what I could. I'm only sorry it wasn't more," Zorah says, her eyes lingering on Nessa's sleeping form. "She looks better."
"She is," Cairpra confirms, "thanks to you. She would not have remained alive long enough for my aid to have been any use without you."
With no men present, Zorah chooses to slowly unwind her veil. The lightweight linen falls free, revealing a lovely face creased by recent hardship, as well as twin scars seared into her cheeks, melted lines which look as if she's been burned by a molten rod like the one Maeve so recently held in her hands.
Cara gasps, her skinny body jerking harshly before she cringes against Cairpra's side, blushing scarlet as she falls silent. The scarred woman and scarred girl regard each other in silence for a long moment before Zorah calmly holds out a hand. "You need not fear me, child," she says softly. "I deserved my punishment, though not for the reason it was given." Her black eyes roam over the shiny pink burn seared across Cara's face, partially melting her eyelid and blinding her left eye. "I can't imagine any world in which you deserved yours."
"You—you cover it," Cara stammers.
"It's custom here," Maeve says gently. "It has nothing to do with her scars, sweetheart. Women who follow the Prophet cover their heads and faces in the presence of men."
Zorah nods. "I am not a fervent believer, as many are, but it is easier to conform to custom regardless. And, as the child suspects, it is easier to cover the marks few would understand." She smiles at Cara. "You have power, too. I can feel it."
"I'm sìthiche," Cara says softly. "Like her." She looks at Nessa. "Or, at least, I was."
"You still are," Cairpra says firmly, sliding her arm around the girl. "The monsters who hurt you may have stolen your wings, but they didn't change who or what you are. No one can do that but you."
Cara does not look convinced, but she remains silent and tucks herself close to the old sorceress. Maeve watches with both affection and worry. Keely's apprentice has grown incredibly close to Cairpra in the time she's been at Breakwater, but the old woman does not live there. What will happen when it's time for Cairpra to go home?
On Maeve's chest, Finleigh stirs again and begins to truly wake, her tiny body twitching as sleep recedes. Maeve strokes her cheek as she looks over the new arrivals. The girl at Zorah's side is painfully skinny, a ragged little waif, dirty and threadbare, her hair tightly braided to her head in narrow little rows, but those braids haven't been re-plaited in a very long time. She doesn't really look anything like Rongar or his sister and her rags do not mesh with the expensive dyes of Zorah's linen, but what does Maeve know? Keely looks nothing like her daughters, after all, and Scratch goaded her into believing Keely's mother might be hers, so she's a terrible judge of family resemblance. "Is this your daughter?" she asks cautiously.
"No, but she's my responsibility at the moment. That city is no place for children today." Zorah glances at the kid with fond exasperation. "She was not pleased to leave the tumult, however. Zainab, these must be Doubar's friends. This is his ship."
The girl's black eyes snap and her face lights up. "Is he here?" she begs. "Is he safe? He gave me money, and he told me I was smart. But then he went away and I couldn't find him again."
"I had to borrow him for a while, and now he's out in the battle." Maeve is not at all surprised that this kid somehow conned Doubar out of coin. He's a giant puppy dog at heart, their recent conflict notwithstanding, and Zainab looks every bit as crafty and capable as Mia. "He'll be back. Why don't you stay with us for now?"
"Why aren't you fighting?" Zainab accuses, her little nose scrunching. "Don't you want to win?"
Keely snorts with amusement. "Don't tempt her. Maeve would be out there if she could, but she's very sick and she has a newborn to care for."
"And you're gonna have a baby." Zainab observes Keely shrewdly. "So I guess you probably shouldn't fight, either."
"That's what they tell me. Wren's carrying, too, even though you can't tell yet. And I think you know how sick Nessa is."
"And the old lady is way too old." Zainab nods as if this satisfies her.
"I'd rethink those words," Cairpra says, but she sounds as dryly amused as Keely.
"We don't call people old. That's rude." Zorah shushes the kid. "Did your father teach you nothing?"
Maeve barely hides a snicker, knowing full well that's going to be her in a few years, and it will be her own big mouth's fault for whatever comes out of Fin's. She'll blame Sinbad, but they both know the truth.
"Abi doesn't care how I talk." Zainab rests her head against Zorah's arm. "I want him back."
"I know. Hopefully when the fighting ends. You've been very patient so far. Just a little longer now."
"What's going on out there?" Wren tenses at the mention of the battle. Her céile is out there in it, untrained, and though she let him go without an argument, Maeve can feel the anxiety radiating from her. She wants him back as much as the ragged little girl wants her father. "Have you seen it?"
Zorah's tired face turns grave. "It's not going well," she admits. "Doubar and one of Ali Rashid's women freed the prisoners from the dungeons. They stormed the armory, so at least they have weapons. Rongar and the pirate woman are leading the attack. We assumed the free citizens would join the uprising, but in this we were wrong. Most remain in hiding, refusing to choose a side. They're too frightened of Ali Rashid."
"Cowards," Zainab scoffs. "I was fighting until you pulled me away." Maeve likes this kid. That's exactly how she felt at her age, though gods help them if Fin is the same.
"That is precisely why I pulled you away," Zorah says calmly. "Battle is no place for children your age."
"The other kids are fighting!"
Mia perks at this, and Maeve watches with amusement as both Keely and Wren shift when they note her interest. Their body language speaks identically—no. Absolutely not. Mia is not quite five years old, and has too much nerve and no sense of self-preservation. A battlefield is no place for her, any more than it is for Zainab.
"I cannot stop a city's worth of waifs, but I can stop you," Zorah says firmly. Her attention returns to Maeve. "The children are nearly the only free citizens who came when we called," she admits with discomfort. "We expected better, but I can't blame the people. They're terrified."
"Kids are always tougher than grown-ups." Zainab glances behind her into the galley. "Is there food? Doubar said there was food before."
Maeve snorts. Doubar apparently found a kid after his own heart.
Cara speaks, to Maeve's surprise, her voice soft as a whisper. "There's cold barley and pickled fish. Are you hungry?" She looks eager to pay forward some of the care that's been heaped on her by her adopted clan. Maeve knows the feeling well, and she smiles as Cara edges out from her place at Cairpra's side.
"I'm always hungry," Zainab replies with Doubar's customary answer, and she follows hopefully as Cara leads her out of the cabin.
"How did you know who I was?" Maeve asks Zorah as Keely draws up the stool from Sinbad's desk so Rongar's sister can sit. She lets Fin grab her finger with one tiny fist, smiling as her newborn blinks those big blue eyes. She's not round and dense like a typical baby, but she has a sweet, delicate beauty all her own and Maeve is confident she'll grow swiftly. She has her father's fighting spirit and her mother's stubborn streak. She wouldn't have survived so much already if she didn't.
"I have the gift of foresight," Zorah says, taking the offered seat. "I don't understand much of what I've seen of you, I will admit, but you are my brother's sworn sister, which makes you kin."
Maeve feels the last of her tension flow away at these words, and senses an echoing release in her sisters as well. Yes. That's exactly what makes them kin. A burst of warmth hits Maeve, too. She's never questioned Rongar's loyalty to any member of Sinbad's crew, but he's a man and she's not really one for talking about her feelings, either. They've never said anything to each other, but she knows anyway. He's her brother. He's shown her without words in a hundred different ways. "I don't think I would have survived these past moons without him. He never butted into my business, but he did what he could nonetheless."
"That's always been his way." Zorah looks wistful. "Even as a boy he always respected boundaries, and loved from a distance when he had to. It's one of his greatest strengths...and may also have contributed to his downfall."
Maeve doesn't know the story of these siblings, but she can sense the turmoil inside Zorah. This woman loves her brother, but there's longstanding tension that presses at Maeve's intuitive gift like an overfull wineskin about to burst. "I can't thank you enough for saving my sister. Antoine, too. We've been frantic trying to find them."
Keely scowls at Ant's name, but Maeve ignores it. Keely can pretend he doesn't exist if she wants to. Maeve refuses to play along. He hurt them all deeply, but pretending he's not just across the ship does no one any good. She stubbornly refuses to acknowledge that she and Keely have played this game with each other countless times before, dragging out silent feuds far longer than necessary. Antoine hurt them all, and Maeve wants an apology and an explanation if he can find one. He destroyed her when he told her she was no longer welcome at Breakwater, no longer part of this clan. But she has enough perspective now to see that, while Keely may need some space, pretending he's not here won't fix anything and may harm Mia in the meanwhile.
"What was done to them wasn't right," Zorah says. "It's been an...adjustment, these past years, turning from a princess to a hostage. I could not order their release, as I would have before. But I did what I could." The haunted pain in her eyes does not fade. Maeve understands the weight of guilt, and she's also just beginning to understand that no matter how much self-imposed penance undertaken, it will never be enough. She's spent years discovering how little that fixes. Whatever put that guilt in Zorah's eyes involves Rongar, and nothing but dealing with it directly will ever make it fade.
"I wish we could repay you by joining this fight," Maeve says. She's too tired to even attempt to explain to Zorah what she knows, and they only just met, besides. She knows the pain the woman holds, but she doesn't know her. And her words are true, anyway. It feels so fucking unnatural to be stuck on the Nomad while Sinbad is out there risking his life. This isn't how they do things. They're a team, and they fight together. She's never been left behind before. He'd better understand that this is a one-time thing; she has no intention of settling down just because they have Finleigh now.
"If you so much as put a toe on that floor, I am sending you back to Breakwater and taking your opal away permanently," Keely says flatly.
"Did I say I was going to? I'm not that stupid." She's close. But not quite that bad. She can feel her body reeling from the loss of blood, and knows she wouldn't get far if she tried to rise now. Besides, she gave Niall her sword.
"Just stupidly reckless," Keely mutters. "Look, in all honesty, I'd be out there too, training or no training. Niall's out there, and your scientist said Dermott is, too. They're my brothers. And people are being hurt. My magic's no good for fighting, but it's good for that. But—" She gestures helplessly at her huge belly.
"Neither Rongar nor I want anyone fighting like that," Zorah agrees.
"There will be time enough to heal the wounded who can be saved once the streets are safe again," Cairpra says firmly. "Then we will all go—those of us who are able—and do what can be done. Until then, as little as it pleases any of us, the best course is to stay put and care for the sick and the children."
"I don't need to be cared for," Mia says stoutly, climbing off the bed. She peers through the doorway where the older girls disappeared.
"Fin does," Cairpra replies with calm. "She's been remarkably good, but Sinbad is correct when he questions whether adventuring into Scratch's domain was the best first day for a premature newborn."
Maeve ignores the not-so-subtle jab at her parenting; Cairpra was the one, after all, who gave her the leather sling and her opal, allowing her to leave Breakwater in the first place. She didn't have to. She could have let Finleigh wake Sinbad and the rest of the house with her cries, ensuring Maeve could not get away. She didn't. The older sorceress may not quite approve of the risk Maeve took, but she let Maeve make that decision, as she has always let Maeve make her own decisions.
Mia slips out of the room, gravitating toward the voices of the older girls like a moth to a flame. As she disappears into the galley, Zorah asks, "The man—Antoine. Is that his child? He said he had two, with a third on the way. She looks just like him."
Keely stiffens. "They're mine," she says, with a hand on her belly. "I don't see why he gets to claim them after walking away." Maeve kicks her sister gently. Keely scowls, but her shoulders relax minutely. "I knew she was hurt," she says, watching where Mia disappeared. "I don't think even she knew how angry she was."
Zorah glances at the doorway. "Zainab has been without her father for quite some time as well. She has a pragmatic streak to her your little one may find useful."
Maeve thinks Keely may not like this suggestion, but her sister doesn't protest. "If she listens," is all she says, squeezing Maeve's foot through the blanket. "Usually she doesn't. She looks like him, but she takes after me."
"Since we have time," Cairpra says, "and you have that marvelous gift, perhaps you can tell us what's been going on here? We received very little explanation before Sinbad and the others joined the fight."
"Gladly," Zorah agrees as they settle in to listen to her. "But I will warn you, it's not a pleasant tale."
"They never are." Keely watches as Maeve shifts the neckline of her dress and allows her rooting infant to latch on. "You shouldn't be doing that, you know," she says, but she doesn't actually forbid her. Maeve wouldn't listen if she tried.
"Wren did last time. That's enough. I'm not foisting my kid off on others to raise like some spoiled queen." The moment it leaves her mouth, Maeve knows it was the wrong thing to say. She winces at Zorah. "Sorry. No offense."
Rongar's sister laughs. Maeve is a little startled; she's extremely beautiful when her somber demeanor breaks, allowing the person inside to shine through. "My mother would have said the same. Father was always after her to act more regal. She said she was a mother first and a queen second."
Maeve smiles. "I think I would have liked your mother."
In the quiet galley, Cara ladles a bowl full of cold barley as Zainab uses a knife to spear chunks of pickled fish from the barrel.
"I've never been on a ship before," the younger girl says, chewing.
"Me, neither." Cara shudders. "I don't like it. It's so dark and close."
"I think it's neat. I can feel the water under my feet." Zainab grins and pops a piece of fish dripping with spices and vinegar into her mouth.
"I don't like that part, either."
"I do. The rocking is fun."
Mia pads softly into the galley and joins the other girls. She inspects the contents of Zainab's bowl with a wrinkled nose. "Isn't there anything else?" Her wings lift at her back and she rises, inspecting the nearly-bare shelves. She bumps Cara as she struggles to maintain altitude, and for the first time Cara pushes her back.
"Anything else? Like what?" Zainab asks, her mouth full of cold barley and fish.
"Oatcake. Berries. Cream." Mia settles back to the floor with a dejected little sigh.
"There's no more berries or cream until summer. You know that," Cara says.
"Isn't it summer here? The air is hot."
Cara opens her mouth to answer, then quickly shuts it again. She looks as confused as Mia.
"What's summer?" Zainab licks her spoon. "Can you fly, too?" She looks at Cara with deep interest.
"No." Cara's voice turns small, and she shrinks into herself.
Oblivious to the other girl's pain, Zainab's attention returns to her food. "I just wondered. I've never seen anyone with wings before. Zorah says Nessa and Antoine have wings." She looks at Mia. "Are they your alaba?"
"My what?" Mia wrinkles her nose, and her wings fold smoothly down her back, as close as she can get to hiding them. "She's my auntie. He's my daidí. But I'm not speaking to him."
"Why not?" Zainab mumbles around a huge bite.
Mia scowls and presses back against the wall, huddling in on herself, which is not like her. "He left."
Zainab swallows. "My abi left, too. He didn't want to. He didn't have a choice."
"My daidí did. He followed auntie because he loves her more than me."
Zainab continues as if she didn't hear the younger girl. "Then umi died, and my uncle took my brother away. But I know abi loves me. I'd do anything to have him back."
Mia looks at the closed door behind which her father lies alone, removed from his family in the other cabin. "My daidí had a choice," she insists, but a note of uncertainty creeps into her voice. "He left to find auntie."
Zainab's spoon scrapes the bottom of her bowl. "I hope abi finds my little brother. I hope he takes me with him when he goes, though. I want everyone together again."
Mia hugs herself. "Daidí didn't ask if I wanted to go. He didn't even say goodbye. I just woke up one day and he was gone and he didn't come back. Mama was mad, so I get to be mad, too."
"What good is being mad at him for going away if he's back now? You're lucky. All I want in the world is mine back."
Mia opens and closes her mouth several times but can bring forth no good response. This is usually the moment when her older cousins receive a fierce shove in retribution for winning an argument, but she doesn't know Zainab like she knows Wren's boys and this curbs her behavior somewhat.
"What about you?" Zainab pokes Cara. "Who do you belong to? You don't have wings, and you don't look like Nessa or Antoine. You're white as a fish." She holds up the last flakes of fish on her spoon. "Do you belong to one of the fishy ladies in there? Maybe the one with straw-colored hair?"
Cara gulps as the younger girl pokes her. She doesn't want to talk about this. She doesn't want to talk about why she doesn't have wings, or who she belongs to. "Keely's my mistress," she says, her voice no more than a whisper in the quiet galley. "I don't have parents. I don't have anyone anymore."
"You have us," Mia says stoutly. "You live with us, so you must be ours."
A throat clearing in the doorway of Sinbad's cabin startles the girls. Cara flinches, but when her sighted eye finds Cairpra she relaxes. Cairpra is quiet. Cairpra is soothing. She respects and honors her mistress, but she loves the old woman.
"My girl," Cairpra says, striding forward with her smooth, even, confident steps, "listen to me now. You may not believe it, but what you have in this moment outweighs the balance of what you've lost."
The old sorceress is right—Cara doesn't believe it. First she lost her parents and their small network of friends. Then, when the pope's men found her, she lost herself. Her wings. The delicate points of her ears which let her hear so well in the forest. The use of one eye. And she's scarred now, horribly scarred across her face and down her back. No man, human or sìthiche, will ever want her like this, and this is a terrifying thing to contemplate—being alone forever. Yes, she has a mistress now who will keep and teach her, plus the safety of a Breakwater, and those are beautiful things. Without their promise she would have given up long ago and let herself die. But they do not balance out all she's lost. Given the choice, she'd far rather be whole again and have her family back, even with the danger and uncertainty of life outside a Breakwater.
But Cairpra refuses to let her retreat. She's a small woman, barely taller than Cara herself, and she does not frighten her as she cradles Cara's face in her gentle, weathered hands. "You have the world, my dear, if you dare to reach for it. Dare to fight for it. Like my Maeve, you faced hardship that by right ought to have killed you. And, like Maeve, you nonetheless remain standing. She faced a choice long ago, the same choice you face now. You cannot always live your life huddled in the shadows, dearest. That is no life at all."
Cara trembles in the old woman's gentle grasp. She knows this is no life. Being afraid all the time is exhausting. She's barely thirteen, but some days she feels as old as Cairpra. But she doesn't have a choice. She's never had a choice. "Maeve is a warrior," she whispers. She's heard the tales of her adventures with Sinbad, told by the redhead and retold by the Breakwater children to each other. Maeve is strong. Maeve is flame. Cara is neither of these things.
"Maeve is what she made herself. She is what she chose to be. You can make that choice, too. The question is what you will do with your chance, child, and no one but you can answer this."
Cara hangs in the agonizing grasp of confusion and indecision, but she feels the old sorceress's cool hands gentle on her face, uncaring of her scars, and the unwavering love and belief in that touch cracks something inside her. She stumbles forward and buries herself in the old woman's arms. "I want to stay with you," she mumbles into her shoulder.
Cairpra holds her firmly. "I love you too, little one. And I believe that may be possible."
Doubar does his best, as the fight rages around him, to keep an eye on Niall. The man isn't a trained fighter, he's slighter than Firouz, and he has a wife and large brood of sons who need him alive. Just how many boys he has Doubar isn't sure, but it hardly matters. Maeve claims him as a brother, which probably means she'd be very upset if he ended up dead.
It's difficult, however, to keep track of anything in the heat of battle, especially one man out of hundreds. This fight is hopelessly unequal, but the escaped prisoners armed with stolen weapons fight heroically anyway. They struggle, men and women alike, against the healthy, disciplined mercenaries of Ali Rashid's army. At first Doubar thought the free citizens of the city would come to their aid, but this has not happened. Only the children answered the call, ducking through the tangle of legs to aid as they can. They're gleefully cruel little waifs and wretches, slicing hamstrings and Achilles tendons with makeshift knives and broken shards of pottery and glass, leaving screaming, crippled soldiers in their wake. At first the mercenaries—some of them, sometimes—attempt to ignore the children, focusing their weapons on the adults. After seeing the damage the little monsters happily do, this mercy ceases.
Killing children is not beyond the unspoken rules of war, unfortunately, but it incenses Doubar nonetheless. The soldiers he sees aiming at little bodies as they slip swiftly through the crowd become his personal targets, and he gleefully dispatches any grey-caped soldier whose weapon comes too close to a child's skin. He can't forbid the kids from fighting—there are too many of them, and they won't listen to him anyway. But he can do his best to keep them from harm.
From somewhere to his left, out of the darkness, Doubar hears a deep voice cursing. He doesn't know the voice but he knows the thick accent; it's the accent all of Maeve's family carry, the accent Maeve herself quickly lost after joining the Nomad's crew. Though he cannot place the voice, the familiarity of the accent draws him. He moves through the chaos of the battle toward it, smashing two heads impatiently into each other when they get in his way. He peers through the darkness lit only by torchlight, but cannot make out any familiar faces—no Niall, not even Antoine, who didn't leave the Nomad with them and should not be here. But he swears he heard that accent.
Scowling, he lets his jagged blade slide along the gut of an approaching mercenary, the sharp edge cutting through him as easily as a knife through sand. A boy in his teens darts in to take the dying man's sword with feral glee. Doubar doesn't begrudge him. These people have lived too long like this. They deserve a little revenge.
"Doubar!" That voice again, deep and hoarse, with that unmistakable accent. His head jerks around, and this time he meets the eyes of a filthy, ragged man working his way toward him through the crowd.
He doesn't recognize him. If he hadn't heard his name, if their eyes hadn't met, he wouldn't have given the man a second glance. He's as filthy and ragged as the prisoners Doubar helped to free, and in the dark of a nighttime battle he looks just like one of them. But, forced to reinterpret the situation, Doubar gives the man another look.
He's big. No trace of fat, but his muscles are too well-fed for him to have been a prisoner. And as he gets closer, Doubar can see that beneath the grime he's as fair as the Celts Doubar left aboard the Nomad. He can't tell the color of the man's eyes or filthy hair in the light of a few measly torches, but he can see now by the shape of his features and the few patches of clean skin that he's no local. He walks without balance or grace, almost as if he's had a leg injury that keeps him perpetually limping, but he fends off attacks from the soldiers with a brutal strength that speaks of pent-up fury.
"Doubar," he calls again as he finally nears, always cautiously watching for the next attack.
And suddenly, it clicks. Antoine told them last night the bare bones of this story—Rumina's curse, Maeve's vow and quest. "Dermott." He shifts his saber into his left hand and holds his right out to the man who was once a hawk.
Dermott takes it. His handclasp is clumsy but firm, his eyes shadowed as they meet Doubar's. "They've been at this for most of the day and now half the night. They can't keep going, Doubar."
"I know." Doubar stares at the hopeless fight before them. He accidentally set all this in motion when he had mercy on Shirez and saved her from a brutal attack that might well have permanently maimed or even killed her. He doesn't regret that part, but now as he watches these former prisoners giving their lives for a fight they cannot possibly win, he feels a sick sense of both guilt and horror. "I thought the people in the city would rise up."
"Everyone thought that." Suddenly, Zainab's father Nasir is beside them, too. Doubar brings the hilt of his sword down hard on the head of a soldier who attempts to take out the prisoner. "This is not your fault, Doubar."
Niall stumbles out of the crowd and crashes into Dermott's shoulder, nearly sending them both to the ground. Doubar grabs one and Nasir steadies the other. Niall swings awkwardly with Maeve's sword, his balance sent haywire by the long, heavy blade, but he hits his target and the approaching mercenary howls as he goes down. "Not like cutting wheat," he pants, sweat dripping from him. "It's night. Why is it still so hot?"
"Because we are very far from home, brother," Dermott replies.
Niall's eyes grow wide as he stares at the bigger man. Finally, "Brother," he whispers, and lunges at Dermott with his arms open.
"Not with that thing in your hand!" Dermott yelps, sidestepping the attempt at a brotherly embrace. "Later. Later I want a barrel of whiskey and my brothers to share it. Now, we have to save these people and I think I know how. I found Firouz in the fight just a moment ago." He scowls into the crowd, but Doubar can't see where the inventor might have gone. "He said Maeve was here. I think she can help."
"She's not well, brother," Niall says, frowning. "That's why I have her sword. Your sword," he corrects, holding up the heavy blade dripping with blood. "You know she'd be in the thick of this herself if she didn't have one foot in the grave."
Dermott pales at this, but he looks resolute. "She won't have to fight. I promise. But I don't think we can win this without her."
Still Niall hesitates. "Keely leads this clan, and you know she won't agree. Sinbad leads the Nomad crew. Where is he?"
"He followed after Rongar, probably into the palace," Doubar replies. It's a reasonable question. That little green girl won't let Maeve do anything, because she knows Maeve will happily die fighting for a good cause. Sinbad has never forbid Maeve from much of anything, but now that she's borne him a child he may well feel differently. "I think," Doubar says slowly, "that if you want Maeve's help, it's best not to ask Sinbad for permission today."
"Wise man," Nasir concurs. "Let the woman judge what she is capable of."
"She demands that anyway," Doubar mutters. "She always has." He turns with a sinking feeling to Dermott. "What aid do you need? You know Sinbad is going to kill us when this is all over, right?"
"He's going to kill me anyway for leaving her, so what's another death between brothers?" Dermott flashes a cheeky grin, but behind it Doubar can see the pain he knows well in his own heart, the pain of having betrayed the people he loves most. "You come with me. I managed to get Nessa to the ship in one piece earlier, but if Maeve's not well I can't guarantee I can carry her now, after fighting so long."
Doubar will do that willingly. "Be careful," he urges Niall once more. "If you get killed, we'll never hear the end of it."
"And us?" Nasir strikes out at a soldier who darts close, neatly lopping off several of the man's fingers and stopping the attack.
Dermott grins. "Brace yourselves for some unexpected allies."
Returning to the Nomad to face his family again is perhaps the hardest thing Dermott has ever done.
When he left Maeve in a fit of anger so many moons ago, he didn't plan to stay gone. He didn't plan anything. He just knew he had to get away before he said or did something unforgivable, and that in itself, ironically, turned into an unforgivable act.
She's grown. He's known it logically for a long time. She's had a woman's mind since she was small, and she's had the woman's body to go with it for...years, if he's honest, though it's not something he's ever felt comfortable thinking about. He knew exactly when she matured, that first teas her body responded to the sìthichean as a child's does not, knew from speaking with Nessa afterward that it had been their good friend Ronan who first touched her, and that while he had been as considerate as possible under the teas, Maeve was overwhelmed by the experience and would have preferred it not to have happened at all.
Maybe that was why, when she admitted to him that she was taking Sinbad north for the teas, he'd flown into such a temper—because of how badly it had troubled her in the past. Or maybe it was because some part of him still saw the three-year-old child he dragged screaming from their childhood home when he looked at her. Or maybe it was as simple as a surge of jealousy, the bitterness he tried so hard to repress as he struggled along in the hawk's form, desperate to return to Nessa, to his family, and unable to do so without Maeve's aid. He had always been her first priority—always. Until, suddenly, he wasn't. Until that brand appeared on Sinbad's chest and changed everything.
He'd seen it coming, even inside the muddled mess of the hawk's brain. He can't lie to himself about that. He saw how Sinbad looked at her—so different from the leers of most men. He was openly admiring, but not just of her beauty. He admired all of her, even the parts she didn't admire about herself. Even the parts that drove him crazy.
And she responded, as she never had before to any man. Oh, by the time she met Sinbad she wasn't physically naive by any stretch of the imagination, though she always conducted her liaisons with men in ways that let her brother escape to a safe enough distance that he did not have to experience anything vicariously. But she'd never fallen for any of them, never wanted more than a night or two of being treated like a woman before she returned to their regular life of travel, hunting Rumina mostly on foot over a ridiculously large chunk of the continent.
But with Sinbad, she was different from the start. Dermott watched the changes in her with both happiness and misgiving. He was glad she'd found a man willing to meet her on her level, but he couldn't help his worry for her...and for himself. Sinbad was a sailor, and a notorious one at that, well known for leaving broken hearts in every port, though he never led any of them on. He was honest about what he wanted, and women were happy to give it to him. It wasn't his fault if they didn't believe him. Dermott just didn't want Maeve to end up like the rest: broken-hearted and pining over a man who would never stay. And, as he reminded his sister so many times during that first year on board the Nomad, she wasn't meant to stay, either. She was there to search for Dim-Dim, to get her mentor back so she could continue the study of magic that would hopefully lead to Dermott's freedom and Rumina's defeat. That was the plan from the beginning: find and free Dim-Dim, leave the Nomad with him, defeat Rumina and break the curse. Sinbad was a means to an end, an ally in this phase of her journey. Nothing more.
Except he quickly became more. And once it was clear he needed a woman with child to break yet another of Rumina's curses?
That became a problem. Because Maeve can't stand seeing the people she loves in danger, and she especially can't stand letting Rumina win. She was going to do it, sacrificing both her future and therefore Dermott's, to save Sinbad's life. Dermott knew it, and he counseled her against it, but the moment he learned she'd revealed her secret and taken Sinbad to Breakwater? That was the moment he knew the inevitable. When she told him they were going back for the teas, Dermott had needed some space. Some time to come to terms with how this would change everything: not only his baby sister's life, but his own as well. She hadn't been able to best Rumina on her own, so what made her think she could do so with an infant in tow? Or what if she died in childbirth, something which happens all too often, leaving him without the warrior who swore to free him? Selfish as it was, she swore to him first, and he needed her. He didn't want Sinbad to lose his soul, but he didn't want himself or Maeve dead or doomed because of the sailor either.
But his day away had not calmed his anger, and one day became two, then a week, as he fumed and tried not to imagine what they were doing up north without him—knowing exactly what they were doing up north without him. It had never particularly bothered him before when Maeve impulsively went to bed with a man they met at a tavern or on the road—or, at least, he told himself it didn't. But it had never meant anything before. This, as they all knew, was very different.
And so he languished, caught between guilt and fury, refusing to go back and face the sister he knew would be more and more irate as each day passed. The only peace he found was when he folded into himself and let the hawk take the reins, dissolving into the instinct of the hunter, the predator who gloried in flight, in chase, in the kill. For days at a time the tortured mind of the man would disappear into the blissful peace of the hawk, and it was...good.
But it was not wise. The man knew how to see and avoid the traps laid by human hunters for winged prey. The hawk did not. This was how he was caught, by hunters seeking game for Ali Rashid's table. The only reason he remains alive now is the remnants of the jesses he wore, leather sliced to ribbons by his feral flight but still attached to his legs. Those trappings marked him as a trained bird, something valuable for the prince's mews, and kept him from being plucked and roasted.
Now he limps beside Doubar, luckily never the fastest member of Sinbad's crew, toward the sister he abandoned somewhat on purpose, somewhat accidentally. He prays with all his heart that she'll be willing to help, if not for his sake, then for Rongar's. For the people of this land, stuck so long under Ali Rashid's rule.
After so many years as a hawk, his human body feels unnatural as it surrounds him. He's used to the swift grace of wings, not the lumbering slow gait of a land-bound creature. Without feathers his skin feels overly sensitive, the eddies and swirls of air almost painful as they brush him. He also feels horribly unclean, as he never really did as a hawk. A dirt bath every now and then usually suited him just fine, but now he desperately wants to scrub and scrub at his skin and probably hack off most if not all of his matted, overgrown hair as well. He rubs the coarse stubble on his skin, wondering if growing it out into a full beard will feel any better, protecting at least this little bit of skin as he gets used once more to being featherless.
No lanterns or candles light the Nomad's deck as they approach. Dermott swallows hard. He's been aboard as a man before, but only for a moment as he settled Nessa and forced himself to leave her. Walking away from her still body was torture, but he could do nothing for her and Rongar needed help.
Now Firouz says Maeve is here, too. Dermott holds his breath as he swings aboard after Doubar. For one moment he feels not quite so clumsy, his powerful arms holding his weight as he swings through the air, as close as he'll ever again come to flight. It's fine, he tells himself firmly. He'd far rather have speech than wings. Far rather feel Nessa curled against him than the sweetest breeze in his spread pinions.
But the moment is over too soon, his human legs fumbling as he reaches the deck, and he goes down hard.
"A little unsteady on your feet?" Doubar holds out a hand, which Dermott reluctantly takes.
"A little unsteady on everything. My center of balance is off, and I can't see right, either."
"Is that why you're squinting?" Doubar frowns at him.
"I guess." Dermott didn't notice. He rubs his palms on the tatters of his trousers nervously. "Maeve's going to kill me."
"Probably," Doubar agrees. "But then, what do I know? She should have killed me today, but she didn't. She gave me that baby to hold instead, and I just…." His voice fails and his eyes grow suspiciously moist.
Dermott stills. Baby? Her baby's born? Has he really been gone so long? He left her the day before the teas, when she wasn't yet with child, and now she's already a mother? He inhales slowly, trying to listen for sounds below, but his human ears can't compare with a hawk's and all he hears are the creaks of the ship, the gentle lap of water against her hull. Scowling at this loss, regardless of how much he wanted it, he lifts the latch and opens the door. He's hid from Maeve long enough. It's time to put this right.
The galley is softly lit, and the sound of quiet human voices reach him as he fumbles his way clumsily down the steep stairs. Doubar grabs the threadbare collar of his shirt at the bottom to steady him.
Dermott doesn't know exactly what he expected to find aboard the Nomad, but he's pretty sure this isn't it. Zorah, whom he recognizes from her nightly visits to Antoine and Nessa, straddles a bench at the table with a small girl in front of her, patiently picking braids from the girl's hair. She flinches slightly when the two men enter, looking for her veil, but then steels her shoulders and does not rise to fetch it. They've seen her without it anyway, and heard her story. Neither Dermott nor Doubar judge her for the scars she bears.
On the opposite bench the sorceress Cairpra, whom Dermott remembers from Basra, sits in an identical position with an older girl he does not know. One of Maeve's magic books sits before the girl; she was reading aloud from it when he stumbled in. Her eyes widen at his entrance and she shrinks away, but Cairpra is steady at her back.
"I wondered when we would see you, brother-of-Maeve," Cairpra says with a gentle hand on the frightened girl's shoulder.
"We've been expecting you," Zorah adds, tapping her temple and smiling ironically.
Of course they were.
"Will Maeve help me?" he asks the soothsayer as Doubar removes his fist from his collar.
"Doubar!" the ragged waif in front of Zorah cries, and tosses her leg over the bench to rise and greet him. "You're safe!"
"I'm safe," he agrees, squeezing her shoulders in his huge hands, "and more than that, I've seen your father. He's doing everything he can to get to you, kid. To make your home safe again for you."
"I want to see him!" She dances in place on her bare feet, jumping impatiently. "Can I go back with you? I want my abi!"
"Not until the fighting is over," Zorah says firmly.
"Listen to the princess," Doubar agrees. "When it's safe, I'll make sure you're the first to know. I swear it, kid."
This does not please the child, but she at least quiets as she slinks sulkily back to Zorah.
"Maeve doesn't know you're coming. We thought we'd give you a moment." Cairpra nods toward the door to Sinbad's cabin.
Dermott hesitates and points toward Maeve's cabin with a questioning lift to his eyebrow. He's not turned around, he swears he's not. He knows which side of the ship is which, and where he and Maeve have bunked since their arrival.
"Antoine is in there, asleep," Cairpra says with no expression in her voice at all as she draws a comb through the taller girl's long dark hair. "I suggest you steel yourself for some changes around here, young man."
Dermott does not answer, feeling both foolish and incredibly uncomfortable. He knew Maeve intended to give Sinbad the child that would save his soul from Scratch and Rumina, but he hadn't considered all that would mean. He hadn't considered that she might not live in her tiny cabin anymore, but in the captain's quarters. Biting hard on nothing, he turned into Sinbad's cabin, where he left Nessa collapsed on the biggest bunk on the ship.
She's still there, thank the gods, and her color looks much better. Someone with magic must have been working on the poison in her blood. What brings Dermott up short isn't so much the woman he adores, the woman he knew he would find behind this door, but the rest of them.
His sisters—all of them, asleep in a tangle, just as they used to do when they were younger. But there are changes, just as Cairpra said. A lanky little girl who looks painfully like Antoine sprawls across their legs, her body contorted in the oddest position, like a cat. Keely, his scrappy little Keely, lies above the blanket, her belly hugely swollen with another child. Wren curls protectively around Nessa, when so often he remembers just the opposite.
And Maeve. The woman he still remembers as the screaming three-year-old who fought him when he made her leave their dead mother. She sleeps quietly with her chosen sisters, a tiny newborn asleep on her chest.
A shaky breath leaves his lungs. Changes, indeed. He knows he has nieces and nephews—knew from Maeve's description every time one was born. But that's not the same as seeing it for himself, as he could not do because Breakwater was closed to him while he wore Rumina's curse. Now, glimpsing the women of his family after so long, he sees the truth he could not when time and distance and the mind of the hawk prevented it.
They've grown up—all of them. Even Maeve, the baby of the family. She now has a baby of her own, his little niece or nephew sleeping peacefully on her chest. Dermott swallows uncertainly as he hovers just inside the doorway. They all used to sleep like this, huddled together for warmth against the frigid northern winters. Seeing his sisters and his love still curled together so many years later, now with children added to the heap, tells him that while many things have changed in the intervening years, many also have not.
His eyes sweep over each sleeping face in turn. Maeve looks awful, and he understands with one glance why Niall was hesitant to ask her to do anything. She looks like death, even her lips pale as ice, the skin around her eyes dark as bruises. She's as skinny as the starving prisoners Doubar just freed from the dungeons. But her breastbone and the baby resting on it rise and fall regularly with her sleeping breaths, and the expression on her face is peaceful...more peaceful than he can ever remember. She won her fight and freed Sinbad, Firouz said during the few frantic moments he met the scientist amid the battle. And she's clearly survived giving birth. She ought to feel peaceful, and triumphant.
Keely sleeps on her side next to her, wound together as they so often were as children, with the addition of a very pregnant belly and the little girl who looks exactly like Antoine sprawled atop their legs. The sister Maeve brought into their lives looks hardly changed otherwise, small and wiry, her messy dark hair flung across the mattress, save the fat poison-green lock falling in her eyes as it always has, as long as he's known her.
Wren and Keely are back to back, sharing warmth. This is his eldest sister, the one he doesn't know as well as the others. He was already cursed when Niall and Wren joined the family, and while they accepted him fully as the human they were told he was, the relationship is different. And Wren has aged, to his eyes, where Keely remains largely unchanged. He wonders if it's the difference in the number of children, the frequency with which she bears them, or a reflection of the hard times they went through before Breakwater became theirs. Wren bore two sons during the lean years when they all consistently suffered from hunger that bordered on starvation. Keely didn't conceive until after they had a home.
His eyes linger on Nessa, as they always have. As they always will. He's not capable of accurately judging Maeve's looks, and Keely is no beauty. Nessa is. She always has been. The day he met her and Antoine, he knew he was hers for life. Oh, he tried to hide it, for Ant's sake. He knew what it was like to raise a younger sister—two, in his case—and constantly fear for her. He never wanted Ant to see him as a threat. But Nessa knew immediately, as Dermott had, and it was only a matter of time. After he discovered Antoine and Keely sneaking back into camp in the middle of one warm summer night, no teas for an excuse, he figured fair was fair. He beat Ant up halfheartedly for the look of the thing, and didn't feel quite as guilty as he otherwise would have when Nessa came to him with those big brown eyes and that soft mouth making no bones about what she wanted. He let her come to him rather than pursuing her, for the sake of his brotherhood with Ant, but they all knew the inevitability of the outcome. Maeve, still just a kid, declared them all disgusting.
But those days are gone now, as that kid who declared love disgusting and flounced into the woods when her siblings grew tender now sleeps in a man's bed with his child on her chest. Dermott is able now to admit his discomfort with this...and also that it's not his choice to make. Right or wrong, this is the path his kid sister chose. If she had to choose a man, he'd far prefer her choice to be closer to home, ideally a man unopposed to joining their growing clan and making his home at Breakwater with everyone else. But Dermott always knew, no matter how much he might wish it, that this was never going to be Maeve's preference. She took too happily to living outdoors, fending for herself—hunting, sleeping under the stars, picking up the next morning and moving on. This is how she's happiest. This is how she thrives. And Sinbad, like it or not, can give her both the freedom she needs and the love she craves. He accepts her fully, as most men do not, and has never, as far as Dermott knows, denied her right to fight and work and sail because of her sex.
"Guess you're not my wee baby sister anymore, huh?" His hoarse voice sounds wistful.
On the far side of the bed, Nessa stirs. Those sweet, hound-brown eyes open, and the smile when she sees him is everything he's craved these terrible years apart. "She'll always be yours," she says softly, and he stumbles to her side, dropping to his knees awkwardly beside the bunk. "All women are magical creatures, did you know that, leannán? We are capable of being many contradictory things at the same time. Maeve maybe more than any of us."
"That much I knew." He exhales slowly and presses his forehead to hers. "How do you feel?"
"Awful." Her tired smile is sweeter than sunshine after a storm. "And soaring." Her hand rises to stroke his cheek. "You're here. You're really here. You're really you."
This moment, he swears, is worth all the years of heartache that came before. "I'm really me." He turns his head to press his mouth to her palm. She doesn't smell quite right, and whether that's the iron in her blood or his muddled senses he doesn't know and doesn't care. She's his, and he has more faith in this moment that she's going to pull through than he has since Ali Rashid first dumped her in that fucking cage. He strokes her wrist lightly, her wounds from the iron shackles now cleaned and bandaged. She'll wear scars from them forever unless Keely can fix them, but he won't love her any less either way.
Nessa's head turns slightly, looking at her sleeping sisters over her shoulder. "Maeve is still yours. She always will be, just like I'll always be Ant's. But she was only ever just yours for a few short years, leannán. Then she became Keely's, too. Mine and Ant's, after that. Niall's. Wren's. Now she's Sinbad's. Is it really so different?"
It isn't...but it is. Dermott strokes Nessa's hair, nearly as filthy as his own. He wants to put her in a steaming-hot Roman bath and let her soak to her heart's content, wants to rub her skin slowly with warm, scented oils while she luxuriates. He may have spent his entire time in the east as a hawk, but he picked up on a few things. He runs his nose gently along the delicate, lovely arch of her cheekbone, reveling in the feel of her against his skin. He's too sensitive for almost any other touch, but this woman is like...coming home.
"It's different," he says, though he can't articulate how.
"Why?" She follows the movement of his eyes. "The baby?"
"I…I don't…" He scowls, frustrated with his inability to express how he feels. "She never wanted one. Never. But here she is. I worry that Sinbad forced her into something she didn't want, even if he didn't mean to." He likes Sinbad; he does. More than that, he respects him. But he also can't deny what he's always known about his sister.
"And I badly wanted a houseful," Nessa says gently, with a small lift of her shoulder. "We can't predict life, Dermott. Not even Zorah can do that, not completely."
Dermott's eyes close. He knows. He knows that Nessa dearly wanted her own children—a houseful, as she said, as many human women have. But sìthichean do not reproduce in anything like the quantities humans do. Keely and Antoine have two with a third on the way, and even with a human womb this is highly unusual. Nessa always knew there was a high likelihood she would never quicken, even before Dermott was cursed. He strokes his fingertip along her hairline, hating this hurt. She's nowhere near too old to conceive, but she's continued to attend the teas without him—not that she has much of a choice—and has never yet quickened. Maeve would have told him if she had, and he would have gladly raised any child she bore regardless of paternity, as any Celt or sìthiche man would. But it hasn't happened, and they both have to face the fact that it quite likely never will, even with him back in the picture.
"It's fine," she says softly, her big dark eyes blinking at him. She's still so tired, despite the care she's received from one of her gifted family members. "I have you back—I have nothing to complain about. And I'm not. We were talking about Maeve." Her eyelids droop, but she shakes herself slightly and opens them again. "You took care of her wonderfully. You did more than most older brothers ever would. And even though you couldn't predict this choice, she's happy, lover. You didn't hear her demanding her baby back from Wren, defying Keely when she told her not to nurse her. This may not be what she wanted before, but it's what she wants now. Can you understand that?"
No, honestly, he can't. He's always known what he wanted, and he has not ever really wavered in this. He wanted his sisters safe and happy, wanted Nessa safe and happy. Hell, he just fucking wanted Nessa. He enjoyed sailing with Sinbad, the excitement, the freedom. He enjoyed parts of his existence as a hawk—the gift of flight, the joy of the predator—but he can't say he ever wanted any of it. He'll happily give up all of it for the chance of a fresh start with this woman. But— "I think maybe I don't have to understand," he says, though fuck, saying so doesn't feel good. "I think I just have to trust her. But hell, it's hard."
"I know. But you also knew she would never stay at Breakwater permanently. You had to know that. Even Keely knows that, though she won't admit it."
"I do. But it scares the shit out of me, butterfly. You haven't seen her and Sinbad together in the thick of it. They're both so reckless when they get their swords out and their ire up."
"Then," Nessa says with a tired smile, "let's just be glad they're fighting on the same side. Trust them. You sailed with him for so long. You know him."
And Dermott has to admit that he does. He loathed the man at first, mainly because of the way he looked at Maeve and his cocky little smirk, but that changed fairly quickly. "I don't want anyone with her," he confesses, because fuck it, Nessa already knows anyway. "But if it has to be someone...he's the best for her." He grumbles. "I still don't see why it has to be someone."
Nessa strokes his wrist, her low, sweet laugh buzzing along his fingers. She sounds so tired, but so deliriously happy. "Maybe worry about your other sister for a while and give this one a rest?"
"Oh, I'm going to beat Ant silly as soon as he's well enough. And he'll probably beat me, too. And I'll deserve it."
"Good." She sounds satisfied. "Then Keely can be irate at him for something other than leaving, and the three of you can put this all behind you. We can finally move on." Her eyelids lower again as she struggles to keep awake. "Are you back for good? Is the fighting over?"
"No," he answers with regret. "We need Maeve's help, or we're not going to win."
"So get her and get going before Keely wakes up and raises a fuss." She tips her head up, asking for a kiss, and he brushes his mouth gently across hers. He'll kiss her properly once she's not a breath away from sleep—and probably never stop once he starts.
"She won't raise a fuss," Cairpra says softly from the doorway. "I took a page out of Maeve's book and cast a light sleep on those two." She nods at Keely and Wren. "I didn't bother with you; I didn't think I needed to."
Nessa stares at the old sorceress in confusion—Dermott's willing to bet from that expression that they haven't actually met. At least not that Nessa remembers. He kisses Ness's forehead once more, then rises slowly, his whole body protesting. He's sore and aching and, fuck, he doesn't want to leave this woman any more than he did the last time. But Rongar's people will not win this fight without Maeve's help, he's sure of it. He's sailed and fought with Sinbad long enough to see the writing on the wall. He crosses with the irritating lurching limp that's all his shaken body will allow, and falls at his sister's side.
She stirs lightly when he nears. Hell, she looks terrible, but her peaceful sleep is divine and he loathes breaking it.
The baby in her arms moves slightly, and its eyes open. Dermott isn't sure babies so small can even really see much, but he swears that kid stares right at him out of Sinbad's eyes. It's appropriate, he guesses, since up close he can now see that the baby's wrapped in Sinbad's old shirt and seems perfectly content with this. He studies his new niece or nephew for a moment while Maeve sleeps. His response to this child's conception is what began this mess, and it's a shame he'll wear like a brand for the rest of his days. If he hadn't left Maeve as he did, Nessa wouldn't have come after him and Antoine wouldn't have followed her. They'd all be safe at Breakwater, a home Dermott has never seen, with the rest of the children, most of whom he likewise doesn't know. Wren's eldest two were babies still when he and Maeve left, and only knew him as a hawk anyway. Now Wren has five, Keely almost three, and Maeve, his first, youngest sister, has one of her own.
And really, what was he so afraid of, he wonders as he stares at the kid and it stares back at him? This kid is so small he knows he could hold it cupped in his two hands. Nothing to be afraid of. Maeve survived its birth, and while she looks awful, she's always bounced back from everything stronger than before. He has no doubt she'll do the same now.
"Hi, kid," he says, brushing his fingertip across a tiny fist. "You don't know me yet, but you will. I'm your uncle. I haven't been a very good one so far, but I'm going to do everything I can to change that."
"Dermott."
His eyes jerk to Maeve's face. Bleary dark eyes blink at him. She looks almost...almost panicked.
"Shh." He draws a thumb across her forehead. He's rarely ever shushed her—she never listens anyway. "Don't wake your sisters."
"Dermott." She clears her throat impatiently, blinking the sleep from her eyes. "Firouz said—but I didn't think—I didn't even consider—" Her voice falters to a stop, then returns again, much stronger. "What the fuck happened?"
"Shh," he repeats. "I mean it, don't wake your sisters. Listen, little bit, I know you're furious at me. You have every right to be. But can we put that aside for just one moment? Rongar and the others—we need your help."
She rubs her eye with the heel of her hand and winces. "I want to. I do. But if I get up I'll just fall down again. And I gave Niall my sword. Your sword," she corrects quickly. "Gods, Dermott, I don't even—"
"By the gods, you think I expect you to fight looking like this?" He snorts lightly. "Give me a little credit, please. I was a hawk for eight years, not a raving idiot. I wouldn't risk you like that, not even for Rongar. Not even for Sinbad."
Some of the guilt in her eyes eases, but the confusion lingers. "Then what do you need?"
He offers her a broad smile. "A miracle. They need a miracle, and I have faith you can supply it." He touches the baby's fist lightly. "You saved Sinbad's soul after all, didn't you?"
"I did," she agrees proudly. "Though not quite how I intended."
Dermott shrugs. "You never play by the rules anyway. Isn't that what Master Dim-Dim said?"
"Her name is Finleigh. Fin." Maeve clears her throat, watching his finger trail along her baby's curled fist. "She's a fighter. I know it already."
"What else could she be, considering her parents?" Dermott looks cautiously at his sister. He's not quite as confident about her strength as he sounds. He'd never ask her to fight, and he's not sure he should ask for her magic, either, but he doesn't know anyone else, not even Cairpra, with this particular skill. And Maeve will willingly do it, he can see. She may be furious at him, but she's willing to shelve that for the sake of their family out in the fighting: Sinbad and Rongar, Firouz and Niall, even Talia, who she doesn't like.
A throat clears hesitantly in the doorway. "We need to go," Doubar says quietly, "or there won't be anyone left to save."
"Then we go," Maeve agrees, struggling to pull herself upright.
Cairpra sweeps in and lifts the infant from Maeve's chest. "Since she's sleeping instead of fussing, let's not tempt fate this time, shall we?"
Maeve looks ready to argue, but she presses her lips together and holds her tongue. That's...new. Dermott has never known her to do that before.
"Now you," Cairpra directs, pointing Doubar to the side of the bed, "you take her to wherever you need her. I'm no healer, but even I can see she's correct when she says she'll collapse. And you're not much better," she adds, pushing Dermott away when he attempts to lift his sister. "Lurching about like that, no sense of balance. It's only to be expected, but I won't have you injuring her in a fall on top of everything else," she scolds. "Go, before the sleep wears off and Keely wakes."
"She's going to be irate with you," Dermott warns, casting a final glance at Nessa's sleeping form.
"Oh, I've had plenty of practice with that by now," Cairpra assures him as Doubar gently lifts Maeve from the bunk. "Hurry. Bring her back quickly and in one piece and maybe the green one won't kill you when you return."
"Little chance of that," Doubar mutters.
"Just so you know," Maeve mumbles sleepily, "I'm allowing all this carrying today, and today only. I hate it, and it ends at sunrise."
"Sunrise is only a few hours away," Dermott says as they climb from the galley. He spies both unknown girls now seated with Zorah, happily poring over Maeve's magic book before he closes the door. "You may have to put up with being carried for a little longer. I don't know what happened to you, but you look awful."
"Thanks so much," she responds with dry sarcasm. Dermott smiles in the darkness. Things aren't better between them, and they won't be until he apologizes and she rages, he apologizes again, they rage together, and then somehow end up laughing. At least, that's how this usually works. But his sister is beside him once more, as they head into the breach together for what may be the final time. Sinbad is Maeve's adventure, and Nessa is Dermott's. He's not sure how to handle the truth that their paths now lie in opposite directions, but he cannot continue to hurt her by lying to himself about it, or trying to change it. He has to learn to say goodbye.
But first, before anything else, he needs to help Maeve provide a miracle.