The Gift
Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad
Rating: M
Setting: Just after Season 1
All standard disclaimers apply
EPILOGUE
"Ow." Oh, fuck, ow. Sinbad groans long and low as consciousness returns to him. Maybe he's getting too old for this shit. Or, more likely, he forgot in the intervening years just how bad this idea was. Hells. He's usually much better at remembering these things.
Rain beats steadily on the glassed-in window, the darkness near absolute, the cold clammy and oppressive, but the naked body beside him is warm. Maeve whines and rolls onto her belly, burying her head under the feather pillow. "Stop fucking moving!"
He has the uncanny feeling they've had this exact conversation before.
His stomach roars angrily for food, his throat is dry as a desert, but his muscles warn him they're going to mutiny if he attempts to rise. And he distinctly remembers that whiskey in his condition is not the wonderful idea it appears to be. He'll regret it in the morning, and he's gotten a little better at paying attention to these things since the last time he was in this position. He hasn't had much choice. Last time, he was headed home to a ship full of clueless crewmembers. This time he has a little more to juggle.
"Tell me again why we thought this was a good idea." He's pretty sure he's not capable of rising, but he manages to extend an arm and touch a fingertip to the bare curve of his sorceress's shoulder. So soft. So pretty. Even after three days of the teas, he can't keep his hands to himself. But fuck, his head. The moment he moves it, his skull feels like it's about to crack wide open.
"We were stupid," Maeve says flatly. Her voice is muffled by the pillow covering her head, and she's grumpy as hell. "We hadn't had a night alone in moons, and for some reason I agreed when you decided the teas was the answer. Don't fucking touch me."
His head will not allow him to rise but he shifts sideways just enough so he can roll his aching body, settling over hers, wrapping her in the solid cocoon of his arms. Despite his headache, he finds her whining cute as hell. There's no way he could have convinced her if she didn't want to be convinced, so their pain tonight is as much her fault as his. He feels no guilt, though he does acknowledge when morning comes they'll have to face the consequences. Together.
"Do you want a bath?" His head still warns him he'll regret trying to lift it, but he remembers feeling better after a steaming hot soak last time.
"No, I don't want a fucking bath. I want one night of peace to sleep." She elbows him in the abdomen, and not gently. His Celt has some muscle on her. "By the gods, why did I let you talk me into this again?"
"It was your idea the first time, not mine," he protests. "I told you over and over that we didn't have to do it."
She groans, slowly removing her head from under the pillow, a riot of messy red curls spilling over the mattress. "That time we did. This time we were idiots."
She's probably right. She usually is, no matter how much it irks him to admit it. Sinbad holds his tongue and brushes her heavy red mane off the back of her neck, choosing to kiss her there instead of arguing. Her skin is velvet soft just here, her scent tantalizing and sweet. He's not sure what sort of argument he could present, anyway. Now that his mind is clear again, free from the last lingering effects of the teas, he can admit this was not a logical solution to their problem. The odds are decent that she's now pregnant again, which will only add to the chaos of their lives.
He can't regret it, all the same. They were desperate. Fin's not a fan of sleeping alone and ends up in their bunk more nights than not, and when she doesn't he's apt to find Lily or Oisin or both have appeared during the night unbeknownst to him, curled up with his daughter in Maeve's old bunk. Their Breakwater clan's habit of group sleeping has apparently rubbed off on the next generation. He's also down two crewmembers and everyone's been pulling more night shifts because of it. Declan is a better cabin boy than his parents initially feared, but he's not good about staying in his hammock when he thinks he might be missing out on anything. Maeve refuses to sneak away to the hold with Sinbad during the day because, in her words, "You know exactly how that turned out last time," and nothing he says about extenuating circumstances will change her mind. They were at their wits' end. Three days alone with no possibility of interruption sounded like exactly what they needed, despite the risk, and no matter how grouchy she is now, she did agree.
He nestles down into the soft nest of her bright hair, muted in the dim glow of a single magical light-globe. The sprawling house at Breakwater is unnaturally silent around them save the soft drumming of rain outside. He's not used to such quiet, and it's a little unnerving. The Nomad is a hub of controlled chaos, so is Breakwater at any time except the teas, and his ears don't know what to do with all the silence. He hears the gentle, steady beat of his own heart and Maeve's slow breaths, the rain, an occasional gust of wind, the faint sound of waves in the distance...and nothing else. No creak of rope or wood. No laughter or shouts. No little piping voices or big booming ones. They may have needed a break, but he's pretty sure he prefers the chaos.
"By the way, I'm never doing this again." Maeve groans low, deep in her throat, and turns in his arms. She wearily tucks herself against him, where she fits perfectly, her long legs entwined with his.
"That's what you said last time."
"I mean it this time."
She meant it last time, too...until she didn't. He knows better than to say so, however. He's learned a few things in the intervening years. "Sleep, firebrand, unless you changed your mind and want that bath. We have to be back on the Nomad bright and early in the morning."
An adorable little whine leaves her lips. "I'm afraid of what we'll find after three days away."
He probably should be, too, but he's always been good at rolling with the punches and besides, he left Doubar in charge. Doubar knows how to wrangle kids, and Firouz has gotten pretty good at it, too. Watching Fin, Declan, and Keely's brood for three days during the teas should be no problem for them. It's not like he dumped Niall's other boys on them as well, or Dermott's son for that matter.
"I love you." The words are muffled, spoken into the skin above his heart, smooth and unblemished, free for years of Scratch's brand. She's headed swiftly back toward sleep and he can't help the gentle smile which plays over his mouth. Sweet thing. Maeve has a heart every bit as soft as a princess's, though she will never readily admit it. It's fine. He can pretend she's kept this secret. He loves her completely either way. "But if I end up pregnant again, I'm going to kill you."
He chuckles. "Noted, firebrand." She won't, really, but she'll make his life hell for a while until she gets used to the idea, and he figures that's her right. For himself, he's happy either way. If she quickens again he'll welcome the new addition to their clan. If she doesn't, he's perfectly content as they are. She's enough. She's always been enough.
As sleep takes her once more, pulling her heavily under, Sinbad prepares to follow. They have a few hours left until dawn and the return to their world, their home. His body aches but he's completely sated for the first time, he thinks, since Fin started crawling. And there's little in the world which feels better than that.
Two days later Sinbad feels almost back to normal as they dock smoothly in what he used to think of as his home port: Baghdad. Things have changed now, and he has home ports all over the known world—Baghdad, Basra, Bollnah, Breakwater. Places he has left pieces of himself, memories of his deeds, people he calls kin and clan. Late afternoon sun pours from a cloudless sky, only slightly eased from the worst heat of the day. A steady wind in their sails made the trip up the Tigris almost effortless. Such fair weather and easy sailing, he's learned from long experience, only means there's a different sort of trouble in the offing. He's on the alert for whatever that might be.
"Ahoy!" a very familiar voice calls from the dock.
"Talia!" Declan cries, bare feet pounding the deck as he makes a beeline for his favorite pirate. Sinbad bites back a curse as he has to grab the line the kid was supposed to be tying off. Declan will make a good sailor one of these days, but for now he's just a ten-year-old boy who gets excited about things like the return of old friends.
"That's the Black Rose of Oman to you, kid," she says as she swings herself aboard, Rongar just behind her.
"Aye aye, ma'am!" Dex salutes.
Talia groans. "Anything but that. Ma'am makes me feel old and I'm not quite there yet."
Sinbad laughs as his crew gathers to welcome the newcomers. "What brings you to Baghdad? Last I heard you were scaring up trouble near Tripoli."
"Hey now, that business with the al'afiun runners was not my fault! That was all this guy here." She jerks her thumb at Rongar. He rolls his eyes and returns Doubar's back-slapping hug of a greeting.
The more things change, Sinbad thinks, the more they stay the same. After they finally found and vanquished Ali Rashid and retrieved the Silver Serpent, to his surprise Rongar chose to sail with Talia. Oh, he'd seen the signs, but he hadn't realized how serious it was until Rongar approached him. He told his captain with a hopeless little shrug that he'd had more success than anyone else at keeping the Black Rose even partially honest and she needed him more than Sinbad did. Statistically speaking (according to Firouz, who was keeping score) she wound up with her neck in more nooses. For Talia's part, she left convinced she could turn Rongar crooked. She's a wonderful pirate but she's not that good; Sinbad's money is squarely on Rongar.
"Anyway," Talia continues, "we heard there was something big brewing here. Figured you might need some backup."
Sinbad clasps Rongar's hand and draws him into a brotherly embrace. It's been too long. He has no idea why the caliph summoned him, but he's glad to have the ex-prince at his back once more…though the Black Rose is not exactly the companion he'd choose to accompany him to an audience with any monarch.
It's a perfect moment, greeting close friends once more while docked in a friendly harbor…
...until a piping voice from the crow's nest shrieks, "Bombs away!"
Out of reflex, his head jerks up and he opens his arms. Finleigh is convinced gravity does not apply to her—something he absolutely blames on the winged members of their clan—and he doesn't quite trust that she won't attempt to cannonball from the rigging.
Instead of an armful of little girl, however, he receives a faceful of rotten fruit—rejects from their most recent shipment—encased in something flexible and rubbery. Two sets of hysterical laughter meet his ears, which tells him Fin isn't solely to blame...this time.
"What is this?" he demands, holding up one of the rubbery, fruit-filled projectiles. The thin white film has burst, spewing slimy bits of rotten apricot.
Firouz turns red. "Ah...those would be sheep bladders."
"And exactly why is there a supply of sheep bladders on my ship?" He wipes the rotten fruit from his face. He's not quite sure whether to be angry or laugh yet.
"Ah, you see, well, Niall assured me they're used quite extensively up north for many purposes and I was investigating—"
Sinbad's heard enough. He cuts the inventor off. "How many times do I have to tell you? Investigate whatever you want, but lock your supplies up where little hands can't get at them. Remember what happened when Dex and Fin got into the blasting powder?"
"Another boom?" Talia asks helpfully.
"Another boom," Doubar agrees, his laughter rolling across the deck.
"I did lock them up," Firouz protests. "At least one of the children can pick every lock on this ship. I don't know which kid yet."
Talia bursts out laughing. "Kids after my own heart."
Maeve looks like she's trying to hold in her own laughter. "Go change your shirt and wipe your face. You can't hold audience with the caliph like that."
"I've gone before the caliph in worse."
She makes a face at him, scrunching her pretty nose. "I know that story already."
"I love that one!" Dex says, his hound-brown eyes bright.
"Well, I don't have time to tell it again now." Sinbad wipes the worst of the mess from his face onto his sleeve. "While I'm gone, you get to supervise cleanup."
"I'll do it," Maeve says, stepping in for Declan. "Not the cleanup, but the supervision."
Sinbad frowns. "You don't want to spend an evening at the palace?" Since when? She loves the chance to be pampered every once in a while, and he's never known her to be less than intrigued by a mysterious summons.
"The caliph and I don't see eye to eye." This is a very tactful way to put it, actually, especially for Maeve. The caliph is a traditionalist and does not approve of Sinbad's choice of mate, and Maeve, for her part, has never warmed to the old man. Sinbad has never asked why. It could be the fact that the prince exiled Dim-Dim and tried to have Sinbad executed at one point, though that's water under the bridge to him. "This will work out better if you take Fin, since he asked specifically to see her, and tell me all about what sort of desperate quest we're being sent on when you come back."
"If you're sure."
"I'd rather spend the evening cleaning up sheep bladders and rotten fruit."
Yeah, she's sure.
He kisses her gently before craning to look at the crow's nest again. He does not like small kids playing up there but Fin is very good at ignoring the fact that he is both her father and her captain when she wants to do something. He's leery about taking her to the palace, but the caliph's message insisted she be in attendance which means his little firecracker has to behave. He figures the odds are about 50/50 that she will. "I'm going below to change," he bellows in his captain's voice so she can't pretend she didn't hear him. "If everyone who's going ashore isn't on deck by the time I get back, they'll be scraping barnacles all day tomorrow." It's an idle threat but she hasn't quite figured this out yet. Once she does he may have to resort to actually following through.
"You coming, kid?" Talia asks, ruffling Dex's hair.
He makes a horrible face. "No way! Then I'd have to put on shoes."
Sinbad chuckles as he heads below. He changes his shirt quickly, wipes his face with a little fresh water from the barrel, and makes sure he has a blade in one boot and another at his back, his saber strapped firmly to his hip. No sense in taking chances. The caliph's message was extremely vague except for the order to bring Fin, and he's not sure what that means. Usually the old man is more direct. Though, to be fair, he is getting on in years, and since the summons reached them by word of mouth details may have been lost along the way.
Twin sets of high, piping laughter filter through the hatches in the deck, and now he can tell that's Oisin up in the crow's nest with Fin. He's around more often than not, which is fine so long as no one sees him while they're in port. There's no way Sinbad's risking his nephew's safety in a city like Baghdad. He has the telltale dragonfly sìthiche wings and delicate pointed ears from his father's side and a greeny tint to his nut-brown skin that speaks to whatever ancient magic lurks in Keely's blood. He's not supposed to be old enough to use the opals or his own sìthiche magic to transport himself, but as with all of Keely's children, he seems to play by his own rules.
Oisin remains Antoine and Keely's youngest; though the teas cycles regularly four times a year, they've produced no more. So too does Dermott and Nessa's son, Dermott the younger, remain an only child. Sinbad admits he was nervous at first when the boy was born, as were they all, but so far the mercy shown to the soul which used to be Rumina's seems well-founded: Dermott is a clumsy, happy, loud little sìthiche toddler. There's no trace of Rumina in him, at least not that Sinbad can find. In this respect, the past truly seems to have gone to its rest. At some point the boy will have to learn the story of how he came to be, but there will be time for that later. To Sinbad that's all it is now: a story. Rumina is gone, that book closed, and he's writing the next volume with each new dawn.
It's just as well Oisin has no younger siblings—with Mia in the mix, Antoine has no time for more. They've begun to speak about sending her to apprentice either with Cairpra and Dim-Dim or at another Breakwater. Keely says this is Celt tradition and fosters bonds among clans. Antoine is not Celt, however, and is not keen on his eldest leaving home. Sinbad's keeping his nose out of it; he doesn't care what they decide so long as she doesn't apprentice here with Maeve. Fin is bad enough without Mia egging her on.
"How many brothers have you got now?" Sinbad hears Talia ask Declan, their voices drifting through the hatches on a hot late wind.
"Just the five still." Dex's voice is tight. Talia doesn't know this is a sore subject. Wren's last baby turned out to be twins, another boy and the girl she and Niall so badly desired. Máel is sturdy and thriving, but his sister was born cold and blue and not even Keely could keep her breathing. They named her after Wren's mother and buried her in the peace of the forest, and Wren said she was done. No more teas, no more babies. Luckily for her she has a céile who respects her decision and a sister with the knowledge to make it possible. This is Sinbad's biggest fear, the niggling worry which keeps him awake sometimes at night, even with Maeve sleeping peacefully in his arms. So long as she and any potential new additions remain hale and healthy, that's all he asks of this life.
A crash and a high-pitched shriek sound from above as Sinbad emerges back on deck; he does his best not to flinch as he sees Fin descending along a creeping vine from the crow's nest far too swiftly for his peace of mind. She's like quicksilver, still small for her age but unnaturally agile and nimble for a child so young. Even so, he really does not like watching her plummet like that. She has the fearlessness of youth coupled with that stubborn skepticism of gravity. His explanations that she will forever remain earthbound fall on deaf ears, and what's worse, she seems to have inherited her mother's urge to constantly attempt to prove him wrong. It's amusing as hell, but he'd really prefer she chose a battle other than gravity to wage.
Oisin follows, both children ignoring the rigging meant for this purpose, using his vines instead. A few years ago the sight of plants growing haywire all over Sinbad's ship, climbing up the mast and tangling in the lines, would have seemed really, really strange to him. Now he barely bats an eye. It's Dex's job to make Keely's kids clean up after themselves so their magic doesn't damage the ship. Firouz threw a fit the first time he saw it, insisting plants cannot grow without soil and fresh water. "How not?" Mia asked calmly, holding out her little palm as tiny vines twisted like the finest jewelry around her fingers and wrist. Firouz had no answer and still to this day does not.
Sinbad looks his daughter over as she tumbles to the deck in a tiny heap of laughter, Oisin just behind her. Much as he really, really wishes she didn't race around in four dimensions as if she had wings, she's fine.
"I'm here, abi," she says, grinning up at him.
Yeah, she cut it as close as she could, but she did come down without a fight and he didn't have to send someone up to haul her down. That has to count for something.
"You sure you want to bring that little monster to see the caliph?" Talia asks doubtfully. "The way I hear it, he's not too big on messes."
Fin laughs but Doubar scowls. "She's not a mess, she's a princess," he says, lifting both children to their feet one after the other.
"Ew, no way. I'm a hawk today, like Uncle Dermott used to be." She spreads her arms like wings and tries to dart away from Doubar as he attempts to brush the dust from her. "I don't want to go. Oisin and Dex don't have to. Why do I?"
"Because I need you to keep me company." Doubar hoists her into his arms. "You wouldn't make me go see that old caliph alone, would you?" He pokes his lower lip out. "You don't hate your old uncle that much?"
"I'll take care of you," she promises, tugging on his plait of grizzled hair.
"There's my firefly." He bumps her nose with his before setting her down again.
"Hawk today," she scolds. "Keep up."
"Yeah, Uncle Doubar, keep up," Talia snarks, Rongar attempting to keep a straight face beside her.
"Enough," Sinbad says, though he's finding it difficult to keep a straight face himself. "Last chance to change your mind. I'm sure there will be a banquet," he offers Maeve.
She snorts. "And spend the evening trying to make Fin eat fancy food she hates and keep her in her seat while an old man drones on about politics or the economy for hours on end? Hard pass, captain. You're her father and you can't delegate this task; I refuse."
If that's the way she feels about it. For all he knows she may take the boys back to Breakwater to spend the evening with her sisters, or to Bollnah for that matter, now that Zorah and Cara both have opals of their own. He makes a mental note to ask Rongar if he has news of his sister. The last Sinbad heard, Zorah planned to wed Nasir—a marriage of convenience and friendship more than passion, but he's not one to judge. That will make Zainab Zorah's heir apparent, quite a change from the ragged little waif Doubar found huddled in a dripping alley.
"I'll protect the ship, captain," Dex assures him with a very serious nod. Yeah, he'll make a good sailor one of these days, maybe even captain material. He'll have to find himself another ship when the time comes, however. The Nomad's future captaincy already belongs to Finleigh. The ocean is in her blood and since no trade exists which will allow her to fly like her winged cousins she'll have to content herself with a legacy of sea and flame.
"Good man," Sinbad approves, though in truth it's Maeve who will protect the ship. Dex is learning quickly but he's still too small to be much of a threat to anyone.
"In return, I want my own quest next time."
Sinbad rolls his eyes. "First you need to learn the ropes." He tosses the kid a spare line. "Literally. You practice your knots after helping Oisin clean up."
The boy groans.
"Unless you want to go with them?" Maeve arches a delicate eyebrow at him.
"No, ma'am!" Dex quickly shuts up.
"I can't understand why you all seem to think we're walking into trouble," Firouz grumbles as he tosses one leg at a time over the railing, dropping the short distance to the dock below. "We just handled that run-in with those brigands out of Tunis, and then that warlord who took a dislike to Doubar. Oh, and then that apparition which was terrorizing that little island just before Sinbad and Maeve left for their, er, holiday. Statistically speaking, we're due for a break." He holds his hands out for Fin; Doubar tosses her over the railing and she shrieks with laughter.
"Bye, mama!" She waves to Maeve.
"I'd tell you to behave, but we both know that's not happening. Just try not to get your father thrown in the dungeon, all right? He's already seen it; he doesn't need another tour."
"Aye, mama. Can I see the dungeon?"
"No," Sinbad says, taking her hand when Firouz sets her down. "Not until you're at least five. Or we end up in a lot of trouble." He turns to Firouz. "Statistics don't work with us; I captain by my gut."
"And mine," Maeve adds from the deck of the Nomad. "I love you like a brother, I really do, but your numbers don't add up. Every time you say we're due for a break something else inevitably happens."
"My numbers don't lie," Firouz insists. "Though I do admit our lived experience at times tends to be statistically improbable, it's not outside the realm of possibility."
"Firouz, with us, nothing is outside the realm of possibility. That's what makes life worth living." Sinbad graces Maeve with a salute and the grin she calls cocky before turning to face his boyhood home: the city of Baghdad.
"I'm with Firouz; I think you're all overreacting," Doubar says. "All this talk of numbers and worry and questions about what the caliph wants. Can't you look on the bright side? We're going to have a banquet at the palace, a night in the lap of luxury! What could possibly go wrong?"
Rongar slaps Doubar upside the head. *Do not say that,* he signs firmly. *Don't you know to never, ever say that?*
"I didn't take you for the superstitious type," Firouz says.
Sinbad shakes his head, a wry smile on his face. He adjusts his grip around Finleigh's hand because she's not good at staying at his side, and heads into the city to the sound of very familiar, very welcome bickering.
The walk to the palace isn't long. Sinbad keeps a watchful eye on Fin nonetheless. She's a graceful, agile child, more at ease in the rigging than she is on the ground, but her limp is noticeable as she walks beside him, a lasting scar of her uncle's bitter temper which cannot be erased. One leg is slightly shorter than the other when she stands upright, the healed joint of her knee not quite straight. So far she's never complained of pain, but neither Firouz nor Keely can say whether that might change as she grows.
Someday they will have to explain. They can't hide the story of what happened forever. But, as with her cousin Dermott, she doesn't need to know today. She hasn't started asking questions yet; Sinbad doubts she's even really aware of this difference, just as she's not convinced she cannot fly despite her lack of wings. He doesn't look forward to that inevitable conversation but when she asks he will tell her this truth, along with the most important truth he knows: that she's perfect just the way she is, and he's confident she can do anything she puts her mind to.
Well, except that whole flying thing. He'll be relieved when this particular phase is over. Her magic has only just started manifesting and he's braced for whatever phase might come next.
They reach the palace without mishap, no more than a few odd glances and raised eyebrows when citizens see Sinbad guiding his young daughter along while the lone woman in the group makes no attempt to parent. He ignores the looks; he's used to them, and he takes pride in his fierce little girl. Men who don't understand can get fucked for all he cares.
The palace is unchanged from Sinbad's memories, a shining structure of white marble and sandstone, towers rising toward the sky where a westering sun gleams golden. Finleigh has seen palaces before but none so fine as this and her blue eyes open big and round, her little rosebud mouth forming a tiny O of awe. She clutches his hand tightly, perhaps for once cowed into submission...for a minute or two, anyway.
They're expected. Guards bow politely and usher them inside.
"Quite a change from being marched to the dungeon, eh, Sinbad?" Doubar chortles at his side.
"Or having to sneak in," Talia adds.
"If you pocket anything while we're here, I'll throw you in the dungeon myself," Sinbad warns. "We're guests, and the caliph is a trusted ally."
"Yeah, yeah, the rules of hospitality and all that. I get it, I get it."
Rongar chuckles and slips an arm around her waist. One glance between them lets Sinbad know he doesn't trust her either and will be watching. The ex-prince knows his pirate well.
The guards push open the doors to the throne room and Sinbad leads his crew in, Fin's steps steady at his side. She may be awed by the splendor but his little firecracker's not afraid. Not that he ever thought she would be. Fin's tougher than that. Even Keely can't scare her.
The large chamber is just as Sinbad remembers it, gold and lush fabrics in rich colors augmenting the stone and marble architecture, bands of precious lapis and polished garnet inlaid into archways and columns. Ornate blue blown-glass lanterns hang from the ceiling by golden chains; they reflect the light in Fin's eyes. Doubar's eyes are all for the long tables being heaped with overflowing bowls and platters of steaming food.
"Sinbad! Good man!" The caliph rises from his cushioned throne. He's aged since Sinbad last saw him, his body growing frailer with the passing of time. It may not be long before Prince Casib ascends to the throne, Sinbad thinks with a touch of sadness. But this is the way of life, one generation fading as another takes its place, one tide ebbing as the next rises. Fin's little hand in his is proof of that. "You're just in time," the old man adds, stepping down from his dais with the help of a bowing servant.
"I always have excellent timing when it comes to meals." Doubar rubs his hands together, eyeing the laden tables happily.
"That you have!" the caliph agrees with a chuckle. He clasps Sinbad's hand and shoulder warmly.
"Majesty." Sinbad bows his head to the ruler he has known since infancy. He squeezes Fin's hand, but though he knows she knows she should follow her father's lead and bow to royalty, she stares up at the old man in his bejeweled headdress with wide, wondering eyes.
"And this is the little one I have heard news of." The old monarch does not scold the child for her boldness but his dark eyes appraise her shrewdly. Sinbad wonders what he expected—what he sees. Before Fin was born he hoped she would be her mother in miniature. Time has proven this not to be the case. She takes after him in coloring, darker than her mother's Celtic skin, which is probably for the best considering where and how she lives. Long, fine hair tumbles down her back in her mother's characteristic loose curls, dark like his save for when the sun hits it just right, when the red undertones blaze like fire. She's a little beauty, her sharp jaw his and her mouth Maeve's, with a devilish little grin that's all her own.
He knew better than to dress his little firecracker in anything delicate and expensive for this audience—it wouldn't have survived. Silks and satins are all very well for princesses born and bred to palace life, but Fin is half Celt and all sailor and she does not put up with that shit. Sinbad has a hard enough time convincing her to keep her shoes on, and half the time she's in hand-me-down short breeches from her male cousins anyway. Today Maeve dressed her in a soft blue robe that used to belong to Zainab, so at least the style doesn't scream barbarian to the caliph's eye. She's clean, her hair combed, and the little gold hoops in her ears gleam brightly; that's as good as the caliph is going to get.
"Lovely little thing," the caliph approves, and Sinbad exhales a silent breath of relief. He watches as the monarch puts a gnarled, beringed finger under her chin and lifts it to study her face, turning her first to one side, then the other. "I see a great deal of your mother in her."
"My mama's back on the ship," Fin says.
The old man chuckles. "Not your mother, little bird. Your father's mother, dearly departed these many years."
Fin glances up at Sinbad curiously. "You had a mama?"
"A very long time ago."
Fin looks like she doesn't quite believe him. That's fine. For his part, Sinbad thinks the caliph is reaching a bit. Finleigh is a four-year-old child and his mother has been gone a very, very long time.
The caliph does not question Maeve's absence, which Sinbad thinks is for the best. Fin remains at his side as the caliph greets the rest of the crew and is introduced to Talia.
"You're keeping company with the Black Rose of Oman?" the caliph asks, lifting his bushy white eyebrows at Sinbad.
"And what if he is, huh?" Talia asks, grinning deviously.
"Rongar is keeping company with the Black Rose of Oman," Sinbad says firmly. He's staying the fuck out of it. He's not technically married, which the caliph does not need to know, but Maeve is all the woman—and trouble—he'll ever want.
"Apologies, Your Highness," the caliph says to Rongar with admirable politeness. "The story of your kingdom's rebirth reached even our ears so far away, but the details were vague. You did not stay?"
*My sister rules, as I always wished her to,* Rongar signs.
"Does she now?" The caliph looks surprised.
"And does an excellent job," Firouz adds.
"Your merchants have been doing business with hers, whether you realized it or not." Talia grins, enjoying the old man's shock. "Every drop of whiskey in your kingdom goes through Bollnah first."
"How did such a small kingdom come by such a valuable trade monopoly?" an advisor asks. He looks scandalized; he must be a finance minister.
"By being the best of allies and friends," Sinbad says with a broad grin which Rongar echoes.
The caliph drops the subject and waves them toward the high table. As he does, Prince Casib and Princess Adina enter through an archway behind the throne. Two little boys follow, the younger gripping his mother's long silk skirts at the sight of strangers. The elder wears a scarlet and gold headdress much like his grandfather's, with a large yellow topaz in the center, denoting his status as Casib's eldest son and second in the line of succession. He's perhaps a year or so older than Finleigh, to Sinbad's eye, and he lifts his chin with a touch of arrogance when he catches sight of her.
"Sinbad!" Casib strides forward to greet everyone but Adina hangs back, hushing her younger son. Fin stares at the boys; for the moment she's well behaved and does not leave her father's side. Good girl. He's unsure about that elder prince's reaction to her.
They settle at the high table, Casib at the caliph's right hand and Sinbad at his left. The caliph raises an eyebrow but does not protest when Sinbad seats Finleigh on his other side. Ordinarily that place would be either Rongar's or Doubar's as the next most important male in the room, but he doesn't trust Fin out of his reach here, especially with Maeve absent. Maeve can make her mind with just a glance but this is a skill the rest of them have yet to master; maybe it's some sort of magic.
"Is this 'wine, women, and song?'" Fin asks Doubar, her piping voice loud in the cavernous throne room, her skeptical eyes lingering on the scantily-clad serving girls. "It's boring."
Doubar's face turns red as Talia hoots her laughter. "Not now, kid."
"But you always say you like wine, women, and song!" she protests. "I don't get it."
"Let's keep it that way." Sinbad pulls her polished wooden chair closer to his. If this is the worst that comes out of her mouth tonight he'll consider himself lucky.
"But—"
"Fin." He's not as good at that warning tone as her mother, but tonight it seems to do the trick. She huffs and crosses her little arms over her chest, her expression rebellious but her mouth mercifully silent. He'll make it up to her later, he swears it. She can prattle at him the entire way back and he'll delight in whatever she has to say. Just not now. She's inherited her mother's mouth and while he normally loves this, now is not the time.
"I'll explain it later tonight," Talia promises the kid in a stage whisper absolutely meant to be heard.
Not if Sinbad has anything to say about it, she won't. Fin knows everything she needs to know for now about what her uncles do on shore leave.
"Tell me of your recent travels," the caliph urges as food and drink are served. "We've heard little news of you lately."
Doubar takes the lead on this task, Firouz interrupting to correct points of fact and Talia to interject the odd opinion about "do-gooders" as Sinbad and Rongar keep an eye on Fin. As Maeve predicted, she's uninterested in the caliph's rich fare, most of it highly spiced and heavily sauced. She tastes the watered wine in her silver goblet and makes a horrible face, then decides her distorted reflection in the polished silver is amusing enough to hold her attention. She kicks her legs in her seat and makes terrible, grotesque faces at her reflection, giggling as she ignores her food. Sinbad lets her be. She may not be acting like a lady, but she's not causing trouble, either. He'll make it up to her later. Once they leave, he'll let Doubar buy her whatever she likes from the night market stalls on the way back to the ship. There ought to be some fresh fruit or honeyed pastry she'll deign to eat, and Maeve doesn't have to know it didn't come from the caliph's table.
As the meal continues, Sinbad grows more and more unsettled. He was on edge when they arrived and this feeling has not left him. He thought the caliph summoned him for a reason. Surely he wants more than to simply extend hospitality to an old and trusted ally?
Fin eventually tires of her solitary game. She's not good at sitting still or being quiet, and she's done both—sort of—for far too long. As Doubar regales the entire room full of courtiers with a recent tale that has them roaring with laughter, she slides from her chair, her patience at an end. She crawls underneath the table, popping up again beside the elder of the two little princes. Sinbad is about to rise to grab her but Casib waves him back.
"Let them meet," he says. "Hassan doesn't get much time with other children, and they might as well get to know each other now."
Sinbad doesn't doubt it. He's listened to Rongar's tales of growing up a royal heir and if they're anything to go by, these two little princes may be extremely lonely. But he doesn't particularly like the way Hassan looks at Fin, like he's afraid she might smell bad. The prince is seated too far away for Sinbad to clearly make out what Fin says to him, or the boy's reply.
No, Sinbad decides, he doesn't like this at all. This isn't how he envisioned the night going. The caliph was supposed to ask them for a favor and he was supposed to accept. That's how this works, the only question being the difficulty of the task. But he's unsettled without his chéile at his side, and he does not like the way that boy is eyeing Fin. Or, for that matter, how Princess Adina has been seated at a separate table with the few other noblewomen in attendance, away from her husband and eldest son. Her younger boy leaves his mother's side on hesitant feet, too interested in what's going on with his big brother to continue being shy.
Hassan says something Sinbad cannot hear. Fin tosses her head and laughs. Her little hands dart out and she shoves him sharply—playfully, for her. She's grown up with Zainab and her Breakwater cousins as playmates and has no conception that this is not acceptable behavior with the heir to the caliphate. Her giggles ripple through the room and she darts away through an archway.
Hassan looks stunned. He blinks slowly. His little brother's jaw drops open.
Two heartbeats pass before the boys take off after her, jewels winking in the lantern light as they run.
The caliph, fully engrossed in Doubar's tale, sees none of it.
Finally, well into the night, the caliph comes to his point. He pushes back from the table and settles his hands over his stomach, resting against the richly embroidered silk of his robe. "I summoned you here," he tells Sinbad, "to speak of the past, as well as the future."
"Aye?" Not for the first time, Sinbad wishes he had Maeve beside him. She was correct when she told him they don't function well apart anymore; he needs his chéile at his side. He's not in physical pain, but her absence is a tangible emptiness, a restless sort of irritation he can't quite ignore. It grows worse the longer they're apart. Keely's spell binding them together through the magic of his bracelet may have shattered, but this bond never will.
He also wishes he had her keen mind and her intuition at his disposal. Doubar is tipsy enough to be merry and Sinbad can see Firouz also senses no danger here. Talia is busy at the moment trading glowers with the ministers at the other end of the table, the ones who objected to a woman sitting with the men. Only Rongar seems to share his unease, and one swift glance between himself and the former prince shows that despite the time they've spent apart, they're still on the same wavelength.
A shriek sounds from the corridor—one of the little princes. Sinbad can't tell if the kid's angry or laughing. He frowns and moves to rise but Casib waves him back down. "Let them play. If they're kept away from all others, as I was, they will fall victim to the same sort of plot which nearly ruined me. I've learned better."
Perhaps he has, but Sinbad still doesn't like the way Hassan looked at Fin.
"Your father," the caliph continues, "the illustrious Sinbad the Elder, was a well-respected merchant prince and personal friend to the throne as well as a dear friend of Master Dim-Dim." He shifts in his chair and lifts his cup for a serving girl to refill. "As you know, it was our great wish to unite our families and bring your father's worthy blood into the royal line. Dim-Dim, our continued ally and friend, approved and assisted in arranging the match between yourself and our sadly-missed niece."
The vague feeling of unease inside Sinbad blooms into something bigger. Oh, he knows where this is going. And...gods help him, he wasn't prepared for this. Finleigh is four years old and not of royal blood; he's never honestly given a thought to arranging a match for her.
The caliph quite obviously has. Royal matches are always arranged young; for Hassan's to be brokered at his age only makes sense.
But not with Fin.
Sinbad glances at Casib, then Adina. Neither had any choice in their marriage, nor did they expect any. For his part, Sinbad remembers himself as a child. He did not fight his caliph's decree, accepting that it was his duty to marry into the royal line for the memory of his father's name, the continuation of his blood and his lineage. He was proud to be so chosen…
...until Leah's death threw all of that, everything he'd ever known and believed, into question.
He's not that little boy anymore. Moreover, Finleigh never was.
Casib and Adina listen calmly to the caliph as he drones on. They knew this was coming. Hell, Sinbad should have suspected when the caliph insisted on Fin's presence. Why else would one of the most powerful rulers in the known world take any interest in his little girl?
"That union," the caliph continues, "as we all know, was not meant to be. Fate's hand can sometimes be cruel, and our dearest niece, Leah, was taken before her time. But we can right this wrong with the next generation. My son now has a son and you, Sinbad-son-of-Sinbad, have a daughter."
Sinbad can feel Doubar's eyes on him—the eyes of the whole room, but especially his brother. Doubar isn't tipsy anymore, the surprise of this announcement shocking him sober. Yes, Sinbad does have a daughter, a daughter he loves more than anything else in this world. And he also has a chéile who will incinerate him on the spot if he doesn't get this right.
He inhales slowly. Diplomacy isn't really his thing. He has a far cooler head than either Doubar or Maeve, but that doesn't mean he enjoys these games of language and subtlety. He'd much rather be back on his ship cleaning up rotten fruit and sheep bladders with Maeve and the boys. Briefly he wonders if Maeve had some sort of premonition or intuition warning her about what might happen tonight, if perhaps that was why she chose to stay behind. But, no. Had she any inkling this might happen, she wouldn't have permitted Fin out of her sight. She isn't the kind to hold on too tightly, but she loves her kid.
From the corridor Sinbad hears little voices raised in argument, the children bickering as they run. Fin says something; Hassan squeals in five-year-old outrage.
"We are anxious to see this long-delayed union of our lines," the caliph continues, ignoring the sounds from the hallway. "Against the wishes of some of my ministers, we request no dowry, nothing at all to accompany the little princess save your continued alliance and aid. She shall, of course, be brought up here in the palace under the care of Adina and her ladies, educated and trained to her position as future first wife of the heir to the throne."
"Maeve will roast you where you stand if you return without the kid." Doubar murmurs the words under his breath. Sinbad doesn't need to be told. No way is that happening. He won't allow it, even if Maeve did. The whole mess surrounding Fin's conception and birth occurred because of unfair pressures and expectations placed upon his generation by those which came before: their parents, yes, and also traditions and customs handed down through the ages. That siblings must be each other's keepers regardless of the price, that family must be dictated by blood and not by heart. He and Maeve swore they would not inflict the same wounding expectations on Fin. That legacy, a legacy of duty bound by guilt rather than love, died with Rumina. So, too, must this. Fin is a free spirit. If other people wish to broker and trade their children it makes no difference to him, but he won't follow suit. He can't. That choice must be hers alone.
He remembers the night Oisin was born, how he held his two-day-old little girl in his arms and watched Maeve coo over the newborn, heard her joke with Keely that they were fated as a match. Even this he doubts—if Fin someday wishes to pair-bond with her leafy cousin he won't forbid her, but he sees no signs of it yet. And he cannot let anyone, not even the caliph of Baghdad, take that choice away from her.
But how to stop it? The caliph is delighted with his announcement. His old face, thin and delicate with age, looks deeply content. He cannot conceive of any reason why anyone would deny such a match. From his perspective, Sinbad supposes it only makes sense. He's offering the greatest honor any family could wish, and a safe, gentle life of ease and comfort for Fin as well.
But that isn't the life his daughter wants. He didn't pace the deck of the Nomad night after night with a colicky infant, didn't hold her through the worst of her first childhood illnesses, didn't patch up her scrapes and bumps as she learned to walk and run, just to turn her over to strangers now. And he can't lock her in this cage, no matter how beautiful it is. He sees how Adina sits silently at the women's table, head lowered, out of the way as the men speak and laugh and make decisions about her children, decisions in which she has no say. She may be happy like this; Fin would not, and it would kill him to see his little firecracker stifled, her spark snuffed out.
But he cannot tell the caliph this, not without causing deep offense, the kind which would likely get his whole crew tossed back in the dungeon. He did promise Maeve to stay out of there this time. So what to tell the old man instead?
A warm night breeze rolls slowly through the open archways, setting the hanging lamps and lanterns gently swaying. Jewels and precious metals wink and glow in an overwhelming cascade of color. A deep red glass lantern shifts and the ruby-bright tone briefly dazzles his eyes, enough that as he turns to look where he last saw Fin, he swears he sees a flash of red curls. Probably he didn't...but, then again, Messei, Midir and Étaín's incredibly annoying only daughter, has been looking in on them from time to time, ensuring that the vow Maeve gave in return for Midir's aid is upheld.
The Tuatha dé Danann have nothing to worry about. All of Sinbad's extended clan have been doing their part to spread the corrected ending to Midir and Étaín's tale. And, actually, that gives him an idea. He turns to the caliph and opens his mouth just as Fin and the little princes race back into the throne room.
"I win!" his little firecracker pants, slapping her hand on the caliph's throne as if it were no more important than any other chair. To her it probably isn't.
"No way!" Hassan insists, panting as he draws up behind her. He was a good four strides behind and Fin is brutally honest, for all she's a demon in other ways, so Sinbad highly doubts she cheated. She's just faster than the princes, which doesn't surprise him at all.
"Yes way!" She scowls at him. She's agitated, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides in a motion Sinbad's very attuned to. The children have not been getting along, and she doesn't understand why.
"Fin." Sinbad holds out his hand, calling her to his side. She's upset; like her mother and uncle, she needs a moment to calm down.
"Girls shouldn't race with boys anyway," Hassan says, scowling down at her. He lifts his chin with that imperious little sneer Sinbad would like to wipe off his entitled little face. He hitches himself up onto his grandfather's empty cushioned throne without a glance at the caliph seated at the table. "You sit there, at my feet." He points at the marble floor.
The next moment, he's flat on his face where he just pointed.
Adina gasps. The caliph and Casib stare. Talia's and Rongar's laughter rings through the scandalized throne room.
"Finleigh." Sinbad crosses to her in three strides, picking her up firmly.
"If you think the floor's so great, you sit there!" she tells the little prince, not at all sorry for pushing him. Sinbad doesn't expect her to be.
"Hey, sailor. Just breathe for me." He chucks her lightly under the chin as he brings her back to his seat, settling her on his lap. She's upset, and as far as he's concerned she has a right to be.
"He started it!" Her lower lip quivers with a mixture of anger and hurt as she protests.
"I know. But remember what I told you? Hitting is a last resort, and you weren't there yet." No matter how justified she may have been, she can't go around shoving every little jerk she meets. That might be how her Breakwater kin solve problems, but she doesn't live up north. Her mother's learned; Fin must, too.
"Leave her alone, Sinbad, that little prig was asking for it," Talia grumbles.
Sinbad rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores her. He holds Fin gently on his lap and kisses the top of her head. He inhales slowly before turning to the caliph—he has to handle this carefully. He really would prefer not to end up in the dungeon today. "My apologies, your majesty. As you can see, my Fin doesn't know much about royal protocol."
"She will be taught," the caliph says calmly.
No, she won't, not if Sinbad has anything to say about it. Not how the caliph means, anyway. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to decline your most generous offer." He's really, really trying to be tactful here, even though in reality he'd love to kick that snobby little prince down to the dungeon for a while. Three servants help him to his feet and make much of him, offering sweet treats and iced fruit to soothe his dignity. Red-faced, the boy wedges himself between his father and grandfather, glaring daggers at Fin. She glares right back. While Sinbad doesn't like this little prince one bit, he's also reminded of another first meeting that ended with a man on the ground and an angry girl standing imperiously over him.
But no. That's a story for Fin to write as she chooses, someday far, far in the future.
"Never mind this little hiccup," the caliph says, waving his arm as if the furious children mean nothing. "They will learn."
Sinbad hopes the boy will—for the sake of his future wives, whomever they may be. "That's not what I mean, majesty," he says. He draws on everything he's learned in his long years of travel, of adventure, of loss and heartache, the breaking of tradition and the forging of new ones. Dim-Dim said once to Maeve that life was like a garden, the good things nurtured and tended, fed and coaxed to grow. Each decision he makes, then, is a new seed, one which carries within it the living memories of all which has come before, as each page in a book recalls the previous pages. "I can't speak for my Fin like that—can't give her to you or your grandson. I don't have the right." He may have the legal right, but that has never mattered to him. Fin is a free soul. His vow to her, when she was conceived, was that he would protect her always. He's doing so now.
"What do you mean, man?" The old man's brow wrinkles. "Of course you have the right!"
"I don't." Sinbad looks at the child in his lap. Her head tips back and she gazes up at him. She's still unhappy, but her blue regard is full of trust in him, trust he swears he will never break. "Explaining this may take a while. If you'll allow, let me tell you a story. It starts a very long time ago, with a demigod king and a human princess, and ends—as much as any story ever ends—with my Fin."
From the shadows of a marble archway, a demigod princess with short-cropped red hair smiles in satisfaction.
THE END