A Question of Love and Loyalty

The large island had a gray shadow that loomed as if an omen of bad things to come. The tree branches whipped dangerously as the winds increased, the leaves going into dancing spirals, mimicking their bigger sister, the spiral of death, or twister. The river that knifed down the center of the island constantly changed the speed of its current, from tranquil and cool to the dangerous splashing against the rocky sides. The bluish grass rippled gracefully, but few noticed that were involved in the war of a multitude of nations. The back tents, which housed the generals of the one army, were well protected by the minor soldiers’ tents. Inside the tent, a pair of lovers argued over the situation.

“They want us to sign a treaty? Never!” the dark-eyed woman yelled at her husband. The even older man stared her down wisely.

“This treaty could offer us peace in our land, didn’t you think of that, Morgan? Peace, after all these years?” he asked quietly. Morgan shook her black hair in anger.

“Desmond, I treasure peace, but the statements of this treaty! To allow free roam and trade for them? They mean to rape our women and pillage our villages!” Morgan answered briskly to him. The tent flap suddenly parted, startling the two. Desmond’s squire poked his head in.

“Lord and Lady, the Cauchalain is here finally.” He disappeared to find the warrior. Morgan glared at her husband. He looked her over in reassurance.

“We both agreed that the Cauchalain’s services would be needed.” Morgan pouted and took her place behind the sovereign lord’s chair, pouring him a glass of wine. Just as the flask was put away, the flap opened more this time, revealing a dangerous figure. The Cauchalain stood before them. The squire behind the warrior began to look nervous at the lack of bowing by the warrior, but Desmond knew better than to expect some things of the Cauchalain. The Cauchalain bowed to none, except to ones that deserved respect of the highest forms. The Mage was cloaked in a guise of gryphon; black-ebony coloured save for the beak and talons, and adorned in jewelry that was not only scarce but also blood red and magickal.

“You calllleddd…” the gryphon hissed, rolling several letters, signaling irritation. Desmond bowed his head in respect, nodding to his squire to leave.

“We are glad and honored by your presence…” he began, but the gryphon shot him a fiery look.

“Lucky, morrtall. I do nottt commme forr warr sssometimesss, buttt if yourrr caussse is true, I ssshalll givee you my help.” Desmond cleared his throat.

“Well then. As you know, the East and West have been fighting for decades now. My family has decreed that we shall give this war up to our enemy after our final attack, which will hopefully have your help. Our defenses and supplies are low, and the strain too much on our people,” Desmond explained softly. The gryphon chuckled.

“Then, ollllddd man… Eire is doomed…forrr as longg as ssshee’ss opresssed…ttthhhe magick she oncce held willll beee lost forever.” The gryphon turned to go, the magnificent breast collar gleaming dark red in the light, but Morgan bravely spoke up,

“We realize that, but the ones who disgrace our home are full with eastern ideas which are most dangerous to fight against.” The gryphon slowly turned back, a dangerous look in its eye.

“Which countries are involved from the East?” it asked, the hissing gone, eyes narrowed.

“The major ones, Tribal alliances with the Arabic countries and cities, a few old Roman tribes also. I think one is either Baghdad or Basra, I can’t remember,” Morgan told the gryphon. Suddenly the gryphon reared and a mortal appeared in its place. With an air of magick, she was beautiful. But the cool look in her eyes and the keen sight gave away her factor. She was not only Cauchalain, but a mystical being as well. She turned her eyes, still hawk-like to the couple.

“I’ll help.”

Close to a year later…

Sinbad grunted quietly as he tugged on the material. It wouldn’t come off; he might have to rip it. “Do you want me to help?” Bryn asked. Sinbad shook his head, growling in his head.

“No, I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he answered with a firm tone. Bryn’s breath grew heavy as she reached out to help him. The heat of the night affected everyone aboard, but especially the two in the bow.

“Almost…GOT IT!” Sinbad yelled as he flew backwards, part of the old sail in his hands. The ragged piece had been torn from its leather bindings.

“So, that’s been in there since…when?” Bryn asked as she seated herself against the longboats.

“Since the Nomad crashed into those rocks a year ago. I couldn’t figure it out, but there was always something about that container. Weird.” Bryn took it from his hands, and peered at it. Her eyes widened as the detail of a highly revered gryphon came onto the page. Sinbad looked over her shoulder. He pointed to the Celtic writing, interest in his eyes. “What’s it say?” Bryn peered at it closer.

“It says ‘Cauchalain of Eire and Eire’s Legions. This was the most deadly of enemies to those who opposed Eire’s independence.’ The gryphon must be symbolic of the Cauchalain, since it’s a symbol of power and wisdom.” Sinbad shrugged. They weren’t at war with Eire to his knowledge of things, so the paper wasn’t needed. He moved to take it away from Bryn, but the paper suddenly flew into the air. Sinbad’s head shot up and he caught sight of Bryn’s hawk, Dermott, (or was he still Maeve’s hawk?) gripping the paper. A sudden sting in his eyes made him move to the tiller.

“Fine, Dermott. Keep it.” Bryn shrugged and said good night before going down below. Sinbad wiped at his eyes for a second as he directed the course.

He wouldn’t deny it, he hadn’t thought of Maeve much at all. After his encounter with Scratch, he had pushed her from his mind, as forcibly as he could allow. He had devoted himself to penance for his soul, and had even gotten into a serious relationship with Bryn. They had been together for a year, but the strain had killed any feelings. Bryn had even a more possessive nature than he had thought but she was also obedient, if Sinbad had told her to stay somewhere where she could get killed, she would. So, in a heated argument the captain had manned, he and sorceress called it quits, but remained friends. Doubar and the crew had been upset at this, but had stayed away from the subject. Sinbad began to think of other things that he had on his mind then, not allowing him self to think of her. Mental destruction to himself followed her…pain was his factor in her being gone.

Dermott landed quietly on the railing, looking out at the sea. His dark feathers ruffled in the breeze, his hawk form a signal of male beauty in a bird. Sinbad had known there was something to the hawk one couldn’t place. Something that Maeve had guarded from him only slightly less than she had guarded something else from him that he desired. Her heart.

He had wanted her feelings for him to be like his for her, ever since the moment he had heard her insult him. Oh, he wouldn’t deny it; he had a feeling of lust more or less for her when he had first met her. But as he began to understand her fairly quirky ways, deeper feelings had run into his mind and heart. When they had first kissed, he spent every night in front of her cabin, trying to summon some courage. Once he actually had knocked on her door, but when she answered, he had stammered over an excuse about the chance of a storm. When she asked if that was all he had nodded and left quickly, mentally smacking himself upside the head.

Sinbad kept the course, changing every so often, heading to his home for the past twenty-six years. Baghdad, were the Caliph had requested his audience immediately.

The Caliph was no longer young; even he knew that. His old bones wouldn’t take much stress, such as the war that had been ensued with the barbaric northerners. They fought hard, and were incredibly stubborn when it came to this war. The Alliance that all the cities had joined in bound him to be in this war or to withdraw without dignity or respect. He had long earned the respect as a cunning leader, and his men loved him well as a leader, but they recognized that he was too old to lead them as always. But he supplied them with comfort as best he could, gave payments to families, anything to give back the years of life they’d lose.

His son’s daughter, Ana, played with his daughter-in-law’s gown as Adena held her close to her. The little princess had become the favorite of all that knew her, but her favorite person besides her parents and grandfather would have to be her godfather, Sinbad. The sailor had a soft spot for the toddler, and had agreed to become her godfather when Casib had asked him.

In truth, Casib owed the sailor quite a bit, as did the Caliph, for the sailor had made a man out of the once arrogant youth. The Caliph wondered if the child’s deemed godmother would love her as well. Maeve had been chosen as the little girl’s godmother, though she probably didn’t know it. Many a verbal lashing had Maeve given Casib went he stepped over the line with her. The prince had learned to respect her and others, thus improving him, and helping him befriend the feisty woman.

The Caliph, though, was glad that the sorceress no longer sailed with Sinbad. Being Irish, he’d have to imprison her or worse, for she was an enemy to his lands, and Sinbad would fight him for the life of the woman.

Just as this last thought escaped him, Sinbad came into the hall. The Caliph rose to greet him and his crew as they approached the dais. Sinbad bowed then shook the Caliph’s hand. The Caliph brought him to the chairs positioned, and smiled as Sinbad picked up his goddaughter. He talked to her for a while, and then just held her. He’ll make a good father someday, the Caliph thought suddenly.

“I received your message, your highness. It was pretty urgent,” Sinbad commented quietly, not to disturb his slowly napping goddaughter. The Caliph moved to speak, but a tall man suddenly threw open the doors. He marched to the Caliph, snatching an apple up. The Caliph scowled at him as his granddaughter began to sob. Her mother took her from Sinbad to shush her in the next room.

“Sinbad, allow me to introduce my allies’ champion in the war, Apon. The one with no manners.” The man swallowed and shook the other man’s hand.

“Sinbad, eh? Master of the Seas? I thought you’d be taller.” Sinbad ignored the jab and commented back,

“And I thought the allies’ champion wouldn’t have the manners of a boar.” The man glared at him, and turned to Bryn, a gallant look in his eyes. The sorceress offered her hand, which he turned and kissed. She grimaced, resisting the urge to wipe the kiss off on her dress. When all the introductions were done, the man seated himself beside the Caliph.

“Your majesty, I thought to bring you news of the war when Jul-jab was misting himself to report to the Mage areas.” Aware that he was the center of attention, he continued, “We suffered some heavy losses in the Mage areas. And half our livestock disappeared.”

“And the light calvary? They fair well I hope, since our best Arab horses were taken there,” the Caliph commented. His horses were his pride right now. Apon nodded carefully.

“The enemy has bred to our studs however; through trickery. They pulled our best stud away by bringing some mares heavy in heat. Al-Maruha’s disappearance is a heady loss to deal with. The leaders are now riding stallions and mares with our horses’ speed, and their horses’ deadliness.” Sinbad shook his head.

“Just whom are you talking about?” Apon looked at him as if he was slow in the mind.

“The Celts. We’re trying to claim some lands, but the ancient people are pushing back our armies. They have no sense of improvement…the barbarians,” he ended with an angry tone. Sinbad’s jaw clenched involuntarily.

“Don’t they have the right to be angry? You are trying to conquer an area of high value, which is nonetheless theirs,” Bryn pointed out. Apon dismissed her suggestion and went on discussing the war.

“It was much easier to conquer the lands of Eire before her provinces were united by the Cauchalain,” he commented with great emphasis. Sinbad’s head shot up almost immediately. Firouz cocked his head in interest.

“The Cauchalain? I heard that legend once. A fairly good opponent.” Apon snorted, but was glad to be the center of attention.

“Good? We’ve planned his capture since the coming of him. And he eludes us very well. He has also has killed some of our best mages and warriors. Darien Macara for example.” Sinbad’s eyes widened at the mention of one of his old friends. He looked at the Caliph in hopelessness.

“He died bravely, fighting with his legion. He died with honor, at least he was granted that,” the Caliph explained. Sinbad winced and look at his sleeping goddaughter He took a deep breath.

“My liege, I would die for you and Baghdad, but I cannot forswear the vows of friendship I made to Maeve,” he said softly. The Caliph’s eyes appeared old and sad, and it made him look his age. He knew that he would have to force Sinbad or, capture those whose ancestry traced back to Eire. The Caliph suddenly stood, his face hard with command, his eyes cool.

“Sinbad, I ask you now, as the Caliph, not a friend, to help us. If you do not, then sadly, I’ll have to hold up my laws and the alliance, and order the capture of any Northerners. I’ll have to condemn them, and you, to the pits till this war is over.” That struck home with the captain’s views, and he agreed, his crew willing to follow him to the death.

9 months later…

Sinbad sat still and quiet on his bunk. As a captain in the army, he received private quarters, but many disturbances. Rubbing his sore eyes, he felt the rough scrape of a shadow of a beard, and the length of his hair. It was back to his shoulders now and in need of some serious care. He shrugged carelessly and picked up a scroll. It was a message from Bryn, who had been placed in his Mage areas. According to Dalmarah, who received visions, a small battling brigade was planning an attack in the forests. The 6th Minor Battlement had been assigned this task of ridding the forest of the raiders, and Sinbad was due in ten minutes to lead it. He yawned as he pulled on his sword and dagger, the black leather scabbard matching his pants. The last pause in the battle had been two months ago, and then the Celts had attacked again. Thus causing the disappearance of Dermott and a good many supplies. Sinbad had put scouts on to search for the hawk, but they had all come back empty handed.

Sinbad moved to the tent flap, feeling a pull from a certain drawing. The picture of the gryphon was posted on his clothes chest, faded, but still detailed very well. He had also felt guilty over the whole Irish matter, but he pushed it from his mind like a bad dream. He walked out into the sullen battlements, towards the stable area, where his horse waited. Rongar, and Doubar would all be there. Each of them was involved in a certain section of battle. Firouz, the healing tents, Rongar, the guard for his skills, and Doubar, his second in command. And Bryn was in the Mage areas, but lately her skills had gone awry.

She was moving through the forest as fast as she could through the dense vegetation; her nimble legs a blur. They were behind her; she could feel the breath of a horse, sense the pounding on the earth. For all my magic, you’d think I could mist myself, she thought scornfully. Her dark hair flounced as she darted behind a tree, continuing down a path. As she continued, a protruding root suddenly rose off the ground and tripped her, catching her foot. She went sprawling down the path, her head hitting the branch.

Bryn slowly shook her head and darted to her hands and knees. Too late, you fool, her mind moaned. A light laugh filled the air as a cloaked figure appeared. Bryn staggered to her feet, looking at the other person with defiance. She felt a chill run up her spine as the figure moved away from their horse. Bryn gulped in true fear at the sight of the tall black mare. She wasn’t too massive, lightly built even, with a billowing mane and tale, a long arched neck, a small head, and deadly hooves. This was part of her fear, but the cloaked figure radiated otherworldly powers that made her powers seem paltry.

“I can see why I like you, Bryn of the East.” The voice was even masked, a husky tone, neither male nor female. Bryn began to summon her magick as the figure approached her calmly and quietly. Bryn began to chant in her mind, closing her eyes. “Ah, ah, ah. None of that, little warrior,” the voice whispered close to her face. Bryn’s eyes popped open, and she saw a face she dreaded to see. The figure smirked. “There, had a good look?” the figure snarled, then punched the girl so swiftly that Bryn was out before she hit the ground.

Doubar sat on the light horse uneasily. I’m too old to be playing bodyguard, he grumbled in his head. But he had pledged to his mother that he would take care of his brother no matter what. Sinbad was riding ahead, looking every bit the adventurer he was. Rongar took up another side, keeping lookout for any rogues.

Doubar’s logic, though, interrupted his belief in his brother’s skills. Why would the Irish let their plans be known so easily? He was no closer to the truth than he could have possibly known.

The dirk flew through the air, straight into the attacking Celt’s heart, whose sword was raised at an adviser’s of Sinbad, Asan. The Celt gasped, and then fell back as the earth reclaimed him. Once again, Rongar’s skills save our lives, Sinbad thought to himself. The moor was letting his dirks fly into the enemy; making many of them collapse, dwindling their numbers to fifteen. And when he lost all the dirks, he became the devil with a sword.

Sinbad deflected every sword bent at his own way, when he heard a pounding of the hooves. Looking up the ravine, he saw a massive Celt, cloaked in war paint and furs, astride an equally massive and heavy stallion.

“Hello, Cauchalain,” Sinbad mumbled as he began to balance himself for the attack. The Celt didn’t disappoint. He charged down at Sinbad, his weapon balanced in his hand. Raising a battle cry, he hefted the huge axe over his head to strike. But with an instinct inscribed into him since his training, Sinbad ducked and flipped onto the horse’s back, suffering a slice on the side of his arm. The Celt cried out as Sinbad’s dagger struck the back of his throat.

The other Celts, discouraged by the death of their leader, ran off, ready to grieve later for their supposed leader. Sinbad pushed the body of the stallion’s rider to the ground and reined the horse in. The stallion bucked, and Sinbad quickly dismounted, letting the animal go. He winced as the slice gave away some pain. The other men were shocked beyond belief. Asan was looking up the ravine, probably after the Celts, his jaw slack and open.

“That…was the ‘Cauchalain’ you couldn’t destroy? If it was, I say the Irish are way too boastful about themselves,” Sinbad commented self-confidently.

“Uh…Sinbad, sir. That wasn’t the Cauchalain. That is,” one of his men said. Sinbad followed Asan’s gaze and saw many men standing along the embankment, in the middle there was a slight figure perched astride a light horse. Sinbad saw the many well-armed men, and even as the enemy came barreling down the hill, knew for the safety of his men they should surrender. But his men had honor, and would rather die fighting than to take a coward’s way out.

The battle was short, but hard, and the strength in numbers shone through. Rongar and Doubar were disarmed; Sinbad and his soldiers were tense with readiness. One by one, his soldiers were disarmed, and Sinbad was held as the Cauchalain came down the hill, only to dismount no more than ten feet from the captain. Sinbad twisted against his captors, anger burning off him like an aura. The figure turned to one of the massive men who held him.

“Let him go, Cedric.” Sinbad felt the men step away, and looked at his captor. He looked unarmed, and Sinbad threw his caution away. He ran at the man, punching out at his cowl to make contact with the face. But the unarmed figure stunned him beyond belief. He grabbed Sinbad’s arm, twisted it back near breaking point. Sinbad’s eyes widened as he tried to twist his arm back, but the figure raised their leg, and snapped it out into his ribs. Sinbad went flying back, and the figure took their straight leg to the side, and rested it back down. Moving forward, his cloak making a soft sound against the worn grass, he headed to the captain. “Get away from him!” Doubar yelled from the sword point of four soldiers.

Sinbad looked up, the sun blinding him, only to see the Cauchalain reach out a hand to help him. Sinbad reached out and grasped it at the wrist, and pulled himself up, but the forgotten men grabbed his arms, trapping them. Sinbad’s still blazing anger got the best off him, and he reached out to wrench the cowl off, his arms coming out surprisingly easy. What he saw cooled his anger, and he was left with full measure of painful knowledge.

A long slide of red-gold hair came out of the cowl, followed by a fey-like beauty. Ivory skin, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, slim figure. Sinbad’s eyes were confused and hurt.

Maeve was the Cauchalain, who killed ones who might have been her, or her friends’ friends. Her dark eyes regarded him coolly, but he was soon struck over the head, her fleeting image still in his mind.

Indecision

She was quieter than usual, he thought. No spitfire of talk, coolly calculated words, or any rambling of spells. Just silence filled their tent. The young black haired man gazed at her quietly, watching for every moment he knew for a sign of speech. Then he saw it, her slender back shifting slightly away from him. “He recognized me,” she said in a soft manner. The man could recognize the soft tone as one of deadliness, not tears.

“I’m sure he would, dear heart, not many could forget such a face as yours,” he answered matter of factedly. She had to see that he was there for her.

“I didn’t want him to, I wanted to bring him to the Ard Ris without him knowing me,” she countered, leaning towards ‘the country pride’ argument. The man sighed.

“Dear heart, if you are this upset, why don’t you cast a spell, or fireball him. Much as I like him, I don’t like to see you so upset,” the man told her. Maeve growled quietly and sat up, her reddish hair reaching her waist.

“I can’t, that’s the problem! The bracelet is driving my senses off the wall. Ever since I tore my own off, I can’t control my power to hit a bracelet wearer with magick very hard.” She put her head in her hands, rubbing her temples. The man moved forward, and sat beside her, rubbing her temples for her. She sighed.

“I swear, one of these days you are going to get stuck in your shape shifting.” Maeve chuckled. “Only trying to make you laugh, dear heart.” She hugged him.

“That’s the good thing about you. You have healing powers beyond most, Dermott.” Her brother smiled and pushed her away. “And I can see you are trying to use your other powers at what you’re best at, you lech,” she said, a wicked glint in her eye. Dermott laughed.

“I have to thank you for letting her go.” Maeve waved her hand.

“You owe me though, dear brother. I gave you enough time to romance her, though you do have the tendencies of a raging buck,” she answered swiftly. Dermott nodded, and moved out of the tent. Maeve turned back to her books, only to hear Dermott come back through the flap.

“I wouldn’t be one to talk, sweet sister. After all, you’re the one who is worried about what your captain thinks,” Dermott hurried out before Maeve turned back around, astonished at the mischievous look in his green eyes. She smirked and turned back to her books. The itch to see if Sinbad would recognize her was bothering her, and finally she moved out of the tent, heading to the prison area.

Strapped to a tall post in a sitting position was Sinbad. His face had evidence of the poor personal hygiene he had, his hair greasy and much longer than it had been before she was taken…err…had left. Murmuring softly, he wasn’t aware of his surroundings, only his mind. Maeve nudged his mind with her magick, confused by the pain in it. There was self-loathing, love, anger, and a million other emotions that stunned her beyond belief. But her coolness returned because of her keeping the memory of his loss of faith and betrayal alive in her mind; as she waited for her once ally to awaken.

Sinbad moaned deep into his head. The pain there and in his ribs was now an insistent throb, but had dulled at least a bit. Damn, Maeve was always quick to kick and knock out. His mind shifted to her as he tried to wake up. What had she done with them? Let them stay in the forest, return to their camp? Or worse… Then he felt it, a soft touch in his mind that felt light and warm, with a scent of wild grasses. Maeve…maybe this is a dream, he thought, and I’ll wake up on the Nomad, and Maeve will be there.

Then he caught another sharp mixture. Tanned leather and horse invaded his scent and he was able to open his eyes. The sight before him almost made his jaw slack.

Unlike her Celtic ‘brothers’, who dress in old furs and jerkins, followed by war paint, Maeve dressed tighter, and with agility in mind when she dressed. Black leather pants covered her long legs and slim waist, her upper torso bound by a tight shirt. Up to her calf were long boots with a slight heel, a dagger tucked inside the left; a long, black, embroidered cloak guarded her back. The sun sent a glimmer of light over her red gold hair that fell to her waist, and the broadsword encrypted with several foreign languages looked every inch as deadly as she did.

Sinbad saw the hard look on her face, the cool, self-confident glimmer in her eyes, and knew that he wasn’t dealing with his old confidant. He was dealing with a battle-hardened woman, who carried the lives of many on her shoulders. He couldn’t flatter or tease her like he used to, unless he wished to be killed.

Slowly, she bent down till she was level with him, her face a foot away. Her head cocked to the side as she examined him. “Humph, what happened to you?” she asked, a smirk on her face. Sinbad let himself slip into his defense mode, forcing the memory of the deaths of his old friends fresh into his mind.

“Got hit over the head by some barbarians,” he snarled. Maeve snorted, then laughed. The sound was harsh and mocking, not musical and good-humored.

“I see. And what should I say when your ‘virtuous’ soldiers rape Eire’s daughters?” she demanded. Sinbad’s jaw clenched involuntarily. She stopped the banter. “As pointless as this is, the Ard Ris wish to see you, to discuss peace. They will make sure I get you there.” Sinbad smirked.

“Ah…and I thought you actually wanted me to come here to be your love slave,” he countered. Maeve rolled her eyes heavenward.

“Ah, and they ask why I’ve stayed a maiden for so long. Look at the lecherous voyeurs that overrun your other wise excellent lands and seas, Goddess,” she prayed out loud. Sinbad flinched at her words and Maeve looked back at him.

“Oh…and they indicate that the Cauchalain was a maiden, fair and wise. Looks to me like they were wrong on all three accounts.” Maeve took the retort with more fury than he had expected. Her blow to his ribcage was vicious and hard, bruising and possibly breaking a few ribs. He grimaced. In turn, she grabbed his chin and made him look at her. She held up a wrist.

“Really? Well tell me, oh wise one, how could I get these if I were otherwise?” she demanded. Sinbad’s eyes focused and he saw what was on her wrists. At first the sight of the blue snakes tattooed onto her wrist stunned him, and hit a memory. He knew from reading a few of Dim Dim’s books that only the proven ones of the Eire line could receive the snakes. Yet there was horrendous scarring on her left wrist. He began to stutter when Maeve turned away from him.

“Your crew is being returned to the Baghdad sector, including the girl, Bryn. But to ensure their safety, you must swear that you’ll not dare oppose my orders.” Sinbad sighed, and swore the oath. Maeve turned back to him, and raised her eyebrows. The ropes binding him fell away, leaving him free. He slowly stretched, feeling every tendon groan in protest. He grumbled with satisfaction as he felt the comfort of relaxation set in. Maeve watched with a slight smirk of amusement.

Maeve couldn’t deny it, as distasteful as he had been before, he appeared attractive right now. The war between them had produced a toned young man, with a hardened mind. She turned away from him, retreating deep into thought. Men were hurrying around the yard, unmindful of their leader’s thoughts. Maeve heard Sinbad moving toward her, felt his one hand on her arm, his warmth invading her personal space. “Maeve, I need to know something,” he told her quietly. She slowly turned. The closeness between them, the mere touching of their auras sent invisible sparks into the air. Sinbad’s light eyes watched her face; trying to see past the mask she kept up.

“What?” she asked hoarsely. The distance between them was making her uncomfortable. Her mind roared at her to step back, but her heart tugged at her to move forward.

“Why do they want to see me?” Sinbad asked her, also meaning in his mind, “Do you still love me?” Allah, how he wished that he could ask the real question, to see if she would break down and tell him that she did, or if she would smack him around. Maeve shrugged.

“ ‘Tis their way. Honestly though, we are having a banquet of sorts, to help some of the worst wounded of soldiers forget such nonsense as this war is. A temporary treaty was signed. The war will be stopped for a week or two, a mutual agreement.” She searched his eyes. “They also wish to speak of permanent peace. You are highly respected with the Ard Ris, and they expect good judgement and fairness on your part.” Sinbad nodded.

“I’ll try to keep an open mind,” he told her. Maeve nodded to him and moved off. Her horse was picketed to the ground, his long neck bent as he grazed, his small head and large eyes turned to the captain. Sinbad watched as Maeve patted the horse’s neck, her hands moving through the thick mane that hung long and loose, the horse raising his head, snorting aloud. Maeve took up the reins and mounted into the light saddle. The horse crab-stepped near Sinbad, and Maeve stuck out her hand. Sinbad swung himself up behind her, and the stallion lunged at Sinbad’s weight.

“Whoa, Ebony, steady.” The stallion’s ears flicked back and forth at the Cauchalain’s voice, his nervousness easing till he stood, trembling. Maeve urged the horse out of the camp, breaking out into a smooth trot. Sinbad’s arms tightened around her ribs momentarily. He didn’t want to admit it, but this was a closeness he craved.

They had only been travelling for an hour when they came to a large, mist cloaked lake. Sinbad’s eyes were confused as Maeve dismounted off the stallion. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to control the fiery horse, Sinbad followed her. Maeve stopped at the bank of the shore and raised her arms. She kept her eyes closed and foccussed inwardly.

Suddenly, the mists parted and Sinbad caught sight of a small barge being rowed towards them. A dozen of tiny men decorated the boat, blue tattooing and dark skin making a sharp contrast to their fairy looks. When the boat finally reached the shore, one of the six men jumped off the boat and bowed low and gracefully to the young Cauchalain. “Mistress, we welcome ye again. Already the Tara Isle had mourned your brief loss,” the small man told her. Maeve smiled, and then turned back to her horse. Whistling loudly, she watched as the stallion trotted onto the boat, then followed him. Sinbad also watched as five more men poured off the barge, surrounding him completely. The leader eyed him suspiciously, and Sinbad slowly backed up, his eyes darting from tiny man to tiny man. The leader spat harshly and looked back at the Cauchalain, “Mistress?” Maeve didn’t even turn around to respond.

“Bind and blind him. Make it so blackness encompasses him until we reach the ring of Druids,” she answered. Sinbad was about to run when he felt tiny hands grabbing his arms and legs. He strained, but the men’s size did betray their amazing strength. His wrists were lashed together with strong rawhide, and his eyes covered with a black blindfold. Sinbad’s senses began to go array, but he felt the encompassing numbness as one of the small men struck him on the back of the head with a sword hilt.

Further on the island…

The decorated room was well lit and airy, contrary to popular beliefs of the Irish castles. The lush areas surrounding the castle were fertile, home to many young Irishmen and women, and the centre of war talks. Where Ard Ris walked in the city like normal commoners, where status held little compared to ancient bloodlines, such as the ancient Cauchalain strain, and the Druid strains. But the castle, guarded well by foreigners and Irish natives alike, was well spaced, rooms larger than the norm.

Sinbad moaned silently, the banging in his head an annoyance, and his muscles were cramped and tight. Sinbad felt like he had a hangover, and he regretted ever crossing Maeve’s path again. “Couldn’t she just allow me to fall asleep? Not give me a friggin’ headache?” He slowly sat up, grumbling all the time and rubbing the back of his head. As his fingers knifed through his brown gold hair, he felt a lump that made tears of pain sting into his eyes whenever he touched it. The sudden opening of two oak doors made him jump and look up. If it’s Maeve, I’m going to throttle her! He growled in his head. Instead of his captor appearing, a tall man appeared.

He had dark skin, even darker than Rongar’s, with equally dark eyes and a muscular build. He looked more than out of place among the Celts, but he didn’t even appear to notice Sinbad’s astonished stare as he proceeded to walk into the room. When he reached the edge of Sinbad’s bed, he bowed so his head was pressed to the ground, and then rose gracefully.

“Lord Sinbad, I am Jinji, my high lady’s personal eunuch,” the eunuch stated, his accent clipped and pleasant to the ears. Sinbad cringed as he remembered what must have happened to Jinji to be a eunuch. He regained his politeness quickly though.

“And why are you here?” he asked curiously. The eunuch smiled broadly.

“Ireland’s Greatest Warrior, The Cauchalain, has asked me to be your guide and body servant. With her great wisdom, she sees the ways of some of her ‘comrades’ and trusts only I, her loyal servant,” Jinji declared. Sinbad wanted to chuckle at the eunuch’s flamboyant speech. The eunuch obviously placed Maeve on a pedestal higher than any other save his gods. Normally, Sinbad disliked having servants, but he didn’t want to insult Maeve’s manservant by opposing it. He instead nodded graciously.

“Very well. Well, Jinji, what did your lady wish for me to do,” Sinbad asked as he started to stand. He almost collapsed at the pain in his every muscle. Jinji’s reflexes were great though, and he caught the temporarily crippled captain. A cheeky smile came on his face.

“I think a massage for your muscles. Her Ladyship accidentally kept you under for too long,” he answered, breathing in as he supported the captain. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“First off, bathe. You wreak like the rotten meats given to the dogs.”

Maeve sat before the mirror in her room, looking at her reflection quietly. The gold lining around the image was forged from the Druid stones, and the green in the stand was from as far North as one could go these days. Maeve studied herself quietly. She looked like a hellhound that had rolled in the soiled rushes, she decided. Her hair was tangled, her eyes underlined by blue circles, and her muscles ached horribly. She stretched and groaned at the feeling. “Ah, goddess, some nights I’d just like to sleep,” she prayed.

Sleep was rare for her; troubled by nightmares and prophecies, so she had taken to working on her magick. But the weariness she felt was beginning to show. Separating the mists had worn her out worse than when she had first tried it, and the little men had noticed, giving their mistress a potion to help her sleep. “How can I sleep, if I’m troubled by the past?” She asked herself. Mayhap the Oracle of Druids would know, for her magick had been on the fritz lately.

Opening a cabinet on her dresser, she took out an overly beautiful necklace, dark red and green. The colours of Donnough’s tribe, a problem that had plagued Maeve’s mind for years. The Ard Ris hoped that Maeve the woman would be glad to have Donnough’s affections, so that Maeve the Cauchalain would join with him and give her lands and title to the young tribal prince.

Her bloodline dwarfed most of the other kings, a pure Irish strain, the only descendant of the Goddess Morrigan and on the other side, the goddess Maeve. It was said that the first of her kind had been the result of the man, Caocauchlin, and his first time with Morrigan. Her father, the last Cauchalain, had taken up life as a landholder, trading horses of high Northern quality, mixing their bloodlines with the lighter Oriental Horses. He had urged his daughter to learn the ways of the Cauchalain, and found that her magickal powers were slightly greater than usual. Maeve knew that there was some reason why her father had always looked at her with some regrets, and she felt that it had to do with her missing mother.

Maeve rubbed her eyes again. By the Goddess, how she wished that she didn’t have to go to this ‘banquet’, to listen to these men boast about all of the killing they were doing. But she was bound to go, telling Desmond she would be his advisor for tonight. Ergo, she would bathe, have a massage by her female body servant from Jinji’s homeland in the Mediterranean, sleep, and dressed as it befit her station. Maeve knew it was selfish, but the war’s effect on her was draining.

When she had first moved back to Ireland, she had bought two servants intent on freeing them, but they had refused, as they had known no other life. So, with unique gifts they possessed, they accompanied their mistress, trying to heal her badly scarred mind and body. Jinji’s was the ability to get people to open up, and Lotus Flower’s was the ability to soothe and heal one’s mind and body. The girl spoke only to Maeve and Jinji, though with the latter was most likely to give him a verbal lashing, which he sometimes needed.

Maeve turned away from the mirror, and sauntered slowly into her private bathing area, breathing in the soft, warm fumes. The scent of herbs mixed with sprigs of vanilla actually soothed her, and Lotus Blossom stood, mixing some of Maeve’s hair cleaner. She turned and gave the graceful bow that she usually did. The perfectionist inside the foreigner was horrified at Maeve’s looks.

“My lady, if you’ll excuse me, but you look like the beast in the forest swamps,” the handmaiden exaggerated. Maeve sighed and peeled off her light robe, slowly lowering herself into the large tub. “I’ve mixed some herbs into the hot water to relax your mind and muscles. Mint and Thyme pleases you, no?” Maeve nodded, sighing as her muscles spasmed into relaxation. The aromatherapy would help her relax, but her mind was still a flurry of motion as she washed.

I can’t let him distract me, she decided, I need a fair mind, and have no mercy for what has been done. Despite Dermott, Jinji and Lotus Blossom, she had no one she could trust openly, no one whom could know her deepest thoughts, fears, emotions, and secrets. Maeve’s mind wandered to her brother.

Her twin had been born but a minute before her, but he didn’t have the qualities needed for the Cauchalain. Maeve remembered her sire reading the Book of Morrigan to her:

“The Cauchalain must be coloured with fiery hair and amber, gray, or brown eyes, the rarest is green. Their minds must be pure and innocent till they first shed the blood of another. This must be followed, since they are the borderline of the mystical creatures and my chosen. If ever the female Cauchalain’s maidenhead be wrenched from her before I deem it; the male Cauchalain killed in deceit; or their charges, such as the Unicorns, are felled, the Light of the world will shape into darkness, and all we’ve protected shall be for naught. So it has written, so it shall be obeyed.”

Maeve’s mind pounded with this knowledge as she lay down to be massaged, her fresh, damp hair draping over the side of the table, droplets falling to form a small puddle. She was destined to suffer early in life, that her fey mother’s spiteful, yet prophetic brother had told her. She would make a choice; either she or the ones she cared for would die. Maeve was unsure though; perhaps that stupid faerie was meaning emotionally.

“I was lucky I didn’t die with all that torture,” she said aloud. Lotus said nothing, only worked into her muscles, mindful of the scars covering her mistress. Then Maeve saw him, in a reflection of the mirror.

*Dim Dim, how pleasant to see you, * Maeve drawled in her head, trying to disguise her anger.

* You know why I’ve come? * Dim Dim was trying to act nonchalant.

*To beg for the life of your dear pupil. Look elsewhere, sorcerer. * Maeve began to block him from her, but he was persistent.

*He didn’t know, Maevelyn, you shouldn’t judge him so harshly, * Dim Dim soothed, using her full name for emphasis.

*Oh no, you and he are innocents in this situation. * Maeve winced as some oil hit a fresh wound on her back.

* He is though. * Maeve’s anger boiled at this suggestion. * * You are not! *

* What I did was for your, his, and Bryn’s own good. * But Dim Dim was caught like a snared rabbit, and Maeve was the hungry fox seeing an opportunity.

* I can’t believe you, sorcerer! I spent over 500 years of demonic torture! And for my own good? Give me a break. *

*Maeve, you and he are dangerous for each other, * Dim Dim retorted sharply. *Dim Dim, I spent that time being tormented mentally and physically. * Maeve took a deep breath as painful memories flashed in her mind. * When I came back to this Realm, I was a wreck! And besides, who says that she’s good for them? She is Turok’s daughter, by the Goddess. *

*And your best friend a long time ago. Your brother and Sinbad care deeply for her, you know that. *

* Are you trying to get me to thank you for turning him back temporarily? Dim Dim, you are only tormenting him. He loves Bryn deeply, and to see her, without being able to touch her…it kills him. It broke his heart when he saw her and Sinbad together. * Maeve wouldn’t let on that it had once hurt her also. * Perhaps you should wise up about your jealousy. * Dim Dim’s advice went unheeded.

* Dim Dim, I care naught for him, he broke my heart by becoming that lecherous voyeur that he is now, * Maeve answered quickly.

*If you don’t care for him, release…* Dim Dim began.

*Good-bye, Dim Dim. * With that, Maeve severed the connection and sat up. Covering her nudity with a sheet of cloth, she turned to the young girl. “Lotus, I want you to keep any disturbances down to a minimum. I’m going to try and sleep for tonight’s meeting,” she ordered the small, dark girl. Lotus bowed and gave a sleeping robe to the Cauchalain. Maeve smiled her thanks and headed to her bed, every limb limp with relaxation. Lotus opened the small door and went in search for Jinji to discuss the clothing of their mistress and her guest.

Elsewhere…

He stared at the girl in quiet admiration, watching the pale flesh of her breasts rise and fall rapidly. Wearing not a stitch of clothing and her hair unbound, one might think this was the wedding night of two lovers, if it hadn’t been for her bondage. Bound, spread eagle, to two stout poles, she was the perfect picture of trained obedience, he thought. Like the others, she was bent to his will perfectly, but not sure of him; not knowing if one night it would be a beating or loving, a torture of pain or of passionate embrace.

He looked at her from his leather chair as he carved a little oak bit, one that would fit were her teeth ended, and if it were too big…well, he would take a few teeth out. But she had a few flaws; she never cried out unless in great pain, and her body was deformed from some of his randier moments with her. Gods, he wanted a woman that could handle his roughness. Like that Cauchalain witch, Maeve.

He wanted to taste the innocence that she possessed, to carve her into the perfect female. To peel away layer after layer, until he reached her core, to find what made her quake in fear, and leave her to be his personal servant. But there was another thing he wished for.

He wanted the unicorns, at least one, to see how they responded to pain. When he regained some better titles, he would ride into battle on a submissive unicorn, and conquer more lands than even Caesar or Genus Khan. But that was one impossibility that he’d have to face. He was no innocent, and the unicorns knew of him and his plans already. So, he would settle to ride that young maiden instead. But how to break her spirit was what excited him more.

As he moved towards the young woman, he touched her knee with his sharp knife, and felt her trembles increase as he raised the knife to her inner thigh. Her eyes clenched shut and she whimpered at the knowledge of what he was going to do.

Back at the fortress…

Sinbad sighed in relief as Jinji’s expert hands massaged him. The sandalwood oil was heated and it soaked into his skin. “So you see, the Cauchalain line is ancient.” Sinbad nodded.

“Jinji, how did Maeve come by the blue snakes?” he asked curiously. Jinji shrugged.

“She completed her mental and physical testing on the Druidic Isles as the Cauchalain. She received them just after she came out of the forest on the back of the unicorn stallion,” Jinji’s pleasant voice was filled with pride. Sinbad’s head rose back to the eunuch in surprise.

“Rode a unicorn? Aren’t they untouchable?” he asked in amazement. Jinji chuckled in amusement.

“To evil, they are. My lady’s skills shone through. She has a warm heart,” Jinji contemplated. Sinbad snorted.

“Not to me.” Jinji’s exterior was grim in that small pause.

“You must have hurt her gravely then, my lord, for only those that hurt her and her own become her foe.” Sinbad sat up, pulling the towel over his front.

“I can’t think of anything I did.” Jinji shrugged as he moved off to the bed, where he had set out some finery. Sinbad saw a finely made white shirt, and black breeches, which had a small touch of Persian writing on the hem of the shirt. He gave Jinji a look, then dressed. When he stood, he found that they were extremely well tailored to his size, comfortable, and yet, it made him feel a little bit dressed up as well. Jinji looked him over, a frown suddenly springing in his brow. He whistled sharply and a young girl came out a small door. Her dark beauty stunned Sinbad. She had a duskier complexion than he was used to, with almond shaped eyes, multiple braids in her hair, and with henna designs decorating her arms, bare stomach, and legs.

“You silly eunuch, Mistress sleeps finally,” she scolded in a husky voice. Jinji glared at her, then gestured at Sinbad. She looked over at the captain and bowed to him. “My lord.” Sinbad truly hated being called that and it showed. Jinji coughed.

“Lotus Blossom, what do you think we should do with his hair?” Jinji asked her. The girl cocked her head and began to circle Sinbad. He watched her carefully.

“Most of the Ard Ris have long hair, but some of the Southern have short hair, so the warm breeze doesn’t not interfere with their sight whilst looking over the stormy seas. He would look fine in one that mistress said he had when she was taken I think. And a good, close shave wouldn’t be bad.” Sinbad backed away from her as she drew some shearing knifes out of a drawer.

“Um…no… go away…I happen to like my hair,” he stuttered, only to smack right into Jinji’s broad chest. He gulped as his shoulders were gripped. “Allah help me,” he prayed as the female servant closed in on him.

Two hours later…

Lords and ladies, serfs and free men, soldiers and farmers, troubadour and cooks alike filled the massive hall. A high table was set at the head of the hall, laden with various foods and drinks, but its chairs were empty. High up on the walls were the shields and swords of the united Irish tribes, and the lords of those tribes wandered with their ladies or mistresses in tow, discussing everything from the battle to their newest child or bastard.

Sinbad felt a little awkward as he looked over into the crowd. He had already gotten propositioned by a lady and ridiculed by a lord in less than ten minutes. The men here tended to speak in Irish Gaelic, which bothered Sinbad because he knew he was being talked about. He sighed as he tried to figure out where to go from here. Damn, first she requested his presence, and then left him high and dry in the middle of his enemy.

“I say we should kill every single heathen in yer country, ye Saracen,” a voice growled at his back. Sinbad clenched his fists and turned to see a man that dwarfed even Doubar in height and girth glaring at him with three other men at his back.

“To each his own, sir,” Sinbad answered softly. The man yanked his sword out. “I’ve no wish to fight you,” he told the giant quietly. The man’s sword was at his throat in a blinding flash. Damn, why were all Celts quick to do that? He thought harshly.

“I’ll see your blood weep from your body, Arab scum.” Sinbad felt the crush of the crowd, their desire to see him killed quickly. The sword pressed deeper into his neck and a thin line of blood welted from it.

“If you press that sword, Dean of the North, I’ll see you suffering a fate worse than death,” a voice called from the crowd. Stunned, the warrior turned to the slow parting of the crowd, his sword still at Sinbad’s throat. Sinbad’s eyes caught a shade of dark green and red. The crowd all bowed to the figure, submissive now. Dean glared as he gracelessly bowed to the figure. Sinbad’s lips tightened as the sword tightened at his throat. The voice spoke sharply, “Release him.” The sword was gone and Sinbad saw his savior.

Dressed in a dark green, low-cut silk dress, and her red-gold hair held back by two braids at her crown, topped by a golden circlet that signified her status, Maeve was a vision of awe-inspiring beauty. But the coolness in her eyes betrayed very little true warmth for him or her countrymen. She looked at the massive Celt with true disdain. “You dare go against my orders?” she asked softly. The large Celt’s eyes widened.

“My lady, please, I thought he was…” he broke off when he felt Maeve’s short sword at his throat. Sinbad watched as her eyes blazed, and then his eyes were drawn to the blue snakes that seemed to coil and stretch on her pale wrist.

“If anyone touches him without my orders, I will see whomever did it quartered, strung, eviscerated, etc. quite brutally, then slowly having their heads sawed off. Is that understood?” The entire crowd nodded in unison, fear in their voices as they murmured at her graphic words, then the crowd moved off. Maeve’s eyes watched them carefully, eyeing Dean and his cronies as they trudged off with several well-born ladies on their arms.

Maeve slowly turned back to Sinbad, a dangerous look in her eye as she sheathed the sword. Then, quite suddenly, she cocked her head to the side, grinning coolly at him. Her hand went out and touched his hair, and Sinbad felt a sudden warm rush at her touch. She chuckled hoarsely. “I see Jinji and Lotus got at your hair, my lord,” she commented. Sinbad was puzzled by the absurd comment, and even more so by the title she gave him. He sent an equally cool reply to her.

“I prefer not to keep servants, Cauchalain. I find it makes me soft,” he snapped. Maeve’s eyes briefly flared up but they cooled as she took his arm.

“Well done, captain. Curb your tone though, when talking to the Kings,” she whispered as she made her way to the dais. The coolness of her hands spoke of her animosity to Sinbad, and the young captain was puzzled as he was pushed to the head table. Four men were seated, a stately woman beside each, save one. Maeve moved to this man and he kissed her hand. Sinbad felt the stirrings of jealousy at the thought that this man might be Maeve’s husband. But his mind was eased when he remembered that the female Cauchalain only retained her title until she married. The older man turned to the young ambassador, and smiled genuinely.

“It is an honor to meet you, Sinbad. I am Desmond of the West Tribes. You honor the hall by coming to speak of peace. How was your trip?” he asked. Sinbad looked at Maeve.

“A little bit dull. I mean, with all the tying up, and being knocked unconscious was a complete bore for me,” he drawled, not missing the glare he received. Desmond turned to the Cauchalain, his gray eyes questioning.

“Explain, my lady,” he ordered. Maeve shrugged.

“I’ll not let my enemy come onto my isle without some precautions,” she answered. Desmond’s face was puzzled.

“I remember being told that you used to sail with him. Does that not make him an ally?” he asked. Maeve’s eyes went cold, and her half-smile drifted down.

“Over time, he has become my enemy, Desmond,” She snapped. She spun on her heel and went to talk at the Delcassian (head warriors) table. Desmond shook his head.

“Come along.” The three other’s approached slowly. The first was man with dark black hair and light gray eyes. “This is Wren of the south tribes.” Sinbad shook his hand and turned to the other ones. “This fiery haired one is Thorn of the North, and the tanned skinned man is McLean of the East.” Sinbad shook the men’s hands consecutively, noticing the coolness in all of their eyes. Desmond seated him and began to ask questions of the Caliph’s health, since the two of them had once been friends. A platter bearing food and drink came to the table, and Sinbad tried not to eat too ravenously, since he hadn’t eaten since last night. The pheasant was pleasantly cooked and spiced, and the sailor regretted not bringing his crew.

Sinbad was drinking a cup of ale when Maeve returned with a young man following her. Sinbad tried to hide the amused smile in his eyes. If Maeve was trying to make him jealous, she had another thing coming. But then he noticed the look, which all but yelled from her eyes that she didn’t like this man. The young man obviously meant little to her and the cool brown depths of her eyes showed that she cared little for anyone or thing these days.

“Sinbad, this is Prince Donnough of the South Tribes, Wren’s son and heir.” Sinbad had to tear his eyes from Maeve’s face so he could look at the man. The man had his father’s coloring, save that his hair was the color of sun-dried hay. The young man assessed Sinbad as well, the look in the gray eyes curious and defensive as they shook hands. Maeve watched this with amusement.

Look at them, she thought, like two great stags locking horns for the title of King Stag. She seated Donnough beside his father, and stepped behind Desmond. The young man looked up at her. “You’re not eating again?” he asked. Sinbad turned his attention to the crowd eating, but eavesdropped in on the conversation.

“I’m not hungry, Don.” The curt answer didn’t placate the prince.

“Cauchalain, you should eat for your benefit. I order you to,” Donnough said cockily. Sinbad casually looked at the young prince and the mage. Maeve’s eyes hardened.

“No one orders me, Princeling,” she snapped, “we all know that it is a wonder that you still go off half-cocked…without remembering the time when you pulled that stunt with me before. You almost lost your reason for being a bastard seeder.” The four Ard Ris roared with laughter and Maeve moved off, smacking Sinbad on the way for laughing. He watched as she left to a young man who looked much like Wren and Donnough. They exchanged words, and then he disappeared. Sinbad felt himself at lost of the secrets going on in this hall, but only watched as Maeve come towards him. She turned to Donnough and told him to follow her to the Delcassians. Sinbad felt the age-old surge of jealousy as he watched her leave.

“Don’t worry, little Arab, she isn’t interested in Donnough, sexually or otherwise,” Thorn joked from across the McLean’s plate. Sinbad was a little appalled at the large man’s straightforward implication. Thorn continued, “Our little one has a refined taste in men, or so it seems. She has to if she’s to retain her title. Ah, maidenhead, ‘tis a precious thing in this high area of royalty.” When he failed to get a reaction save for a sigh, he continued, “But she’s probably lying when she says she’s never…”

“Shut up, ye stupid swine,” The McLean said quietly. Thorn was a little astonished to get a reaction from the normally quiet man. The look he was shot was deadly. “As the Cauchalain’s second, I’ve a right to defend her honor. Now, will you accept my challenge?” Thorn backed down almost immediately, knowing how the slight man was deadlier than most. Sinbad smiled and looked up to see Maeve over him. She was dressed in her clothing he had seen when he had been captured, and had her broadsword at her back. She looked over at the McLean and he nodded to her, disappearing into the back hall. Sinbad then noticed that Desmond was gone, and Maeve was the only one left with him.

Taking his hand, she led him to the outer solar, and began to walk at a slow clip. Sinbad followed out of strictly curiosity, and the sorceress slowly began to speak,

“I was asked to speak for the Ard Ri, since the troubles that have been plaguing our lands are my area of diplomacy.” They were now alone on the stone walls, facing the open farmlands. Sinbad noted that no one was outside of the wall.

“Is the festival that important to all of your people?” he asked curiously. Maeve didn’t speak but kept her eyes on the vast lands.

“Nay…even on this land, the demons that ride kill at will. This protects our people.” Sinbad noted the sturdiness of the fortress.

“Well…it would be a good thing.” Maeve sighed and half turned to him.

“Sinbad, the peace that we’re going to talk about is a very serious matter to my people. All we wish is for your people to withdraw all the claims on our ports, that’s all,” she told him, her voice quiet. Sinbad sighed.

“I know of that. If you wish it now, why did you tell our leaders “no”?” he asked. Maeve’s brown eyes seemed to glint a cool gray in the silvery moonlight.

“That is the other thing that I wished to speak to you of. This war, I doubt it was started the way we think,” she announced. Sinbad gave her a puzzled look.

“How so? I thought it was over land and port disputes.” Maeve shook her head.

“I’ve felt a presence that hasn’t been felt in four merciful years, and I know that if I feel it, she is involved,” she told him. Sinbad’s eyes were a little confused.

“Rumina? How would you know?” Maeve’s head went down.

“The year I was taken, this war began quietly. And when I got back, it escalated…”

“Got back from where?” Sinbad interrupted.

“It’s not important…” Maeve bowed her head.

“Aye, it is…” Sinbad answered. Maeve’s head snapped up and her eyes were fiery.

“Hell,” she snapped, leaving him even more puzzled. As she cooled down, she began to speak again, “It escalated to slaughters of both sides. It’s worsened and I’m afraid of the consequences it will have.” Sinbad looked at her coolly. There were raw emotions in her eyes as she stared out at the quiet land. Sinbad suddenly realized that this war was something that had caused Maeve to block out all of her previous life from her, and shoved everyone away from her heart and soul. The Maeve he had missed was no longer there.

“What went wrong?” he asked before he could stop himself. Maeve’s eyes turned to him. “I’m just wondering why you hate me with such a passion.” Maeve turned back to the landscape, and Sinbad took that as his dismissal, slowly walking away on the wall.

“You have it wrong,” Maeve suddenly said, causing him to turn around. She turned her eyes to him. “The opposite of love is indifference. Hate is a feeling of uncontrolled anger and bitterness.” Sinbad mutely nodded.

“We’ll never know if it could have worked out if you had stayed,” he admitted.

“We can’t know, it’s what has been done,” she answered, and turned back to her silent vigil. Sinbad started to leave when he heard a blast of the horns. Maeve looked up at the tower. “The dark…” she whispered softly. A yell came from the parapet and Maeve’s eyes went alert as she looked out at the field, then she gasped. Sinbad followed her gaze and saw a small child wandering aimlessly in the hills. Maeve grabbed him and jumped down from the wall. She tossed him a sword.

“How’s yer riding skills?” she demanded. Before he answered, he was mounted in the saddle of a gray gelding who was half rearing. Maeve was already on Ebony’s bare back and clipping him in the ribs. “OPEN THE GATES WHEN WE RETURN!” she cried and the two horses fled towards the child, who was at least a few miles off.

“Maeve! What’s going on?” Sinbad yelled over the rushing winds.

“Nomads! They steal our women and children, and livestock! We have to get to the child…” Maeve yelled back as Ebony jumped over the bush. By the time they reached the child, the mist had caught up to the child. Maeve reined her stallion in and scooped the child up in front of her. The small girl was holding her one ear, screaming at the pain. Maeve looked into the coming darkness and Ebony began to give off shrill cries. Maeve handed the girl to Sinbad and Ebony snorted his anger as she dismounted. “Take her to the castle. Say to the guard, ‘Cauchalain,’ and he’ll let you in.” She pulled her sword.

“What? I’m not leaving you!” Sinbad answered trying to wheel his horse back to her. Maeve reached a hand out and zapped the gelding, which took off with Ebony trailing behind. Sinbad clutched the child to him and felt her sobbing. The miles went slow and he heard the conflicts of battle behind him. Yelling the password, he rushed inside the gates and handed the child to a woman and turned to see the gates close. As he swung off the gray, he noticed the Ard Ri watching the flashing battle. Climbing the battlement, he came next to Desmond. The man looked over at him.

“We cannot help her.” Sinbad began to move back down, only to have Thorn grasping his shoulder.

“Listen, laddie, you are our only hope now, you must get to yer side by tomorrow.” Sinbad looked over at where Maeve was possibly being slaughtered. He saw the light of the battle go out and heard the pounding of retreating hooves. “’Tis over…” Wren whispered in grief. Sinbad slammed his fist into Thorn’s chin and fled down the ladder. Ebony was rearing and Sinbad braved his life by swinging astride the war stallion. He kicked the stallion hard and the pair was out the gates before the Ard Ri could stop them.

Ebony was fully stretched out as he galloped along the valley floor to his mistress, but he slowed down to a prancing walk when they neared the battle area. Sinbad pulled his sword, and began to steer his way among the corpses. Ebony shook his small head, trying to rid the sickeningly sweet smell of death from his nostrils. Sinbad looked around for Maeve, thinking that they might have taken her with them. But then a sound came from the heap of bodies. Ebony half reared, and Sinbad dismounted, walking to the corpses. Using his sword, he pushed aside the bodies until he reach the final layer. A pain filled moan was heard and Sinbad dug his way to what he thought was Maeve. He pulled back in shock.

A black gryphon lay, soaked in crimson blood from beak to tail and wing-tip-to-wing-tip, cuts and slashes making unsightly markings on the once beautiful creature. Sinbad raised his sword to strike the suffering creature, but a pitiful sigh was heard. “Ssssin…badddd…” The gryphon’s dark eyes closed in pain and Sinbad knew that it was Maeve.

Desmond looked out into the vast fields from astride his stallion. Thorn, Wren, and McLean were all looking out on the fields, their seconds scouting the landscape.

“He must have run off. Worthless Arab,” Donnough announced in Gaelic. Many of the men agreed, but the Ard Ris were silent. The search party was a bunch of less than sober soldiers, and most of them were getting hangovers severely.

“We’ll have to search in the morning. Let’s pray that rain doesn’t wash out his tracks,” the McLean stated quietly. Many of the men began to ride off, but Desmond and his second remained.

“Do you get anything, Dermott?” he asked in grief. Maeve’s twin looked at him, his eyes filled with pain.

“She’s in great pain. I can’t tell if she’s dead,” he admitted finally. Desmond sighed and turned to follow the others. He looked back at his second.

“Dermott?” he asked, only to see a wide grin stretch across the man’s face. He whistled sharply, making half the men turn at the sound of Maeve’s whistle for Ebony being made by her brother.

“He’s mad…” Donnough whispered. The men were ready to agree suddenly heard a horse’s shrill answer and turned to see Ebony striding up the hill at a slow but deliberate walk. From the distance, they could see the outline of Sinbad in a blood soaked shirt, and a bundle in front of him. Dermott rode out to him, and a look of shock was on his face. The Irishmen all watched as the misshapen shape formed to be that of the Cauchalain gryphon. Sinbad was sagging in the saddle as Dermott reached him. He quickly braced the trio himself. The whole brigade followed the foursome as they climbed the hills to the fortress.

Pain, drumming deep into his skull. He turned to the battle in front of him. Dermott felt every jolt of pain his twin was feeling. The mighty gryphon was rearing on her close to shredded hind legs, her mind crazed with the pain. Every healer on the island was trying to hold her back with sedatives, but the creature’s magick resisted it. Maeve screamed and tossed numerous healers aside as she tried to run. The strongest of the Delcassians moved forward, but Maeve’s growl held them back. Dermott moved to make contact and watched as she sprang into the air, limply flying off. And he knew where she was going, but then again, the black horse following her flight wasn’t without a rider.

The deep glade was a jungle in the cold Northlands, lush trees acting as a large canopy for the mystical creatures that survived in the wild. A deep call was heard over the hushed silence of a waterfall, followed by another ethereal call.

The unicorns came into the clearing, nipping at each other as their serenade of calls filled the forest. The brilliance of their coats held a luster that no mortal could ever bring out, and the glimmer of their horns shone in the sun. The stallion bent his head to graze beside his mate, whose feminine eyes reflected the bringing of life. Then the stallion’s head was thrown up, his eyes piercing the forest. He had learned to guard his mate and himself well, barely trusting any sound. Many moons ago, when light was new, he had been foolish and let a maiden touch him. With that, the evil ones had captured him, and removed his horn, sending the world into the cold and further tried to kill his mate. But he had survived thanks to the forest boy who had a great love for the maiden. He shook his head, throwing the long forelock out of his eyes and saw a shadow over the clearing.

He bolted as a black mass of feathers came hurtling to the soft clearing in the speed of a dropped rock. The mare sprang after him, and they disappeared as quickly as they had come.

Maeve moaned as her gryphon form shimmered back to her human form. The pain had increased as her broken legs had been further damaged. The flesh around the wounds had been ripped away to the bone from the velocity of air. She dragged herself to the water and felt a gaze upon her. She raised her head and saw Fella, the unicorn mare, gazing at her. Quill stood beside her, his horn brandishing threateningly. Maeve called to them and Fella came to her Guardian without fear. Her horn dipped to the most severe of the wounds and the flesh healed, wrapping over itself. Maeve whispered her thanks as her bones were repaired and the pain dulled. Quill whistled as he heard someone approaching, and wheeled to leave. Maeve looked at where Fella was gazing and saw a rider on a midnight black stallion. Ebony whinnied to his mistress and Fella bolted quickly, melting into the brush. Maeve closed her eyes and felt the comfort of retreating into her mind.

The fire was small and carefully tended, the twigs dry and clean of mold. The shelter of the trees held comfort for the weary man. Sinbad watched Maeve sleep, the slight rise of her chest signaled the quiet life inside of her. Odd, Sinbad thought, she looks so young when she’s asleep, innocent and fairy-like. No evidence of the dangerous woman that she was showed in this innocent maiden’s face.

She had barely retained consciousness as he healed some of her wounds. One that she received in the belly could have killed her, but using his own skill, and Firouz’s methods, he had sealed the wound. He began to think of her earlier words about Rumina’s threat and was deep in his thoughts when she moaned out loud.

Sinbad crawled over to her, and saw her brow beaded with perspiration and furrowed in pain. He checked her wounds, then looked back at her eyes. They were open and glazed with fever, the brown beneath a haze of gray. “No…no…” she repeated, now shaking hard. Sinbad grew concerned as her young body began to shake more than her wounds would permit. He touched her shoulder and shook her as gently as he could. She flinched but she slowly remained quiet. Sinbad felt her body shiver and heard the chatter of her teeth. “C-oool-dd…” she whispered, pulling his body closer to her own. Sinbad felt her cool breath against the hollow of his neck, the steady but faint rhythm of her heart, and was lost to the dreaming world.

There was someone above him; he could feel it. Sinbad opened one eye and saw two men standing above him, dark green eyes glaring down at them. Sinbad pulled a dagger from his boot and braced himself. “Fear not, mortal, you’re not fit enough for us to even beat up,” a blonde man commented. Sinbad realized that this man was a dwarf, possibly even a gnome by the look of him.

“Hush now, we’re disturbing her.” Sinbad looked at the other, who looked no more than a boy, save for his light eyes that sparkled with an eternity of wisdom. He was gazing at Maeve softly. The elf suddenly looked up at him, light green eyes curious. “How is it you came by the Cauchalain?” he asked, his voice hard. Sinbad looked down at the sleeping woman. She seemed to be half-awake, with soft fairy glitter on her cheeks.

“She was in a battle, and flew off. I came after her, and healed her wounds,” Sinbad answered sharply. The elf smiled softly.

“Well done then, Sinbad. I am Gump, the oldest elf in the woods, and these are my friends. I was told by Maeve’s protectors to bring her healer. You are to follow the dwarfs, I must hide the tracks.” Sinbad was confused as he was pushed away from Maeve and down a path. The thick vegetation finally gave way to a small clearing.

A small, pristine pool of water was in the middle, its glowing light made more ethereal by the shine of the moon. The glade was filled with a soft light, and even Gump seemed awed when he appeared next to Sinbad. “There,” the elf said, pointing one long finger to a softly outlined shape. Sinbad looked at the elf, and slowly moved forward. He tried to keep his eyes open, but a blinding light suddenly spasmed in the air and he reopened his eyes to a new landscape. Time stood still before he ever returned to his realm. The knowledge that he had gained was more than anyone should ever know.

Sinbad reached Maeve long before the sun rose, and slowly bent down to caress a soft cheek. She murmured softly and her body made its way closer. Sinbad gently lowered his face, brushing a soft kiss against her lips. He felt Maeve’s arms around his torso and a soft moan accompanied them. Sinbad allowed himself this intimacy as he lightly caressed her. Maeve murmured again, and Sinbad felt her press her body up to his. Sinbad broke the kiss softly, feeling her softness lay back down on the cloak. He lay beside her, and felt her lips press to his collarbone, her warming breath on his neck. He watched her sleep for an hour, and then stealthily went to tethered Ebony. With luck, he could get the treaty to the armies before something drastic occurred, and return before noon.

Maeve woke to the quiet sound of the last hours of the night, sore and throbbing. She limply lifted her head, peering at the low hearth in confusion. It was then that she remembered the promise of the unicorns, the bloody battle she had engaged in, and the soft warmth of Sinbad’s lips and arms. She sighed with the comforting memory, but quickly chastised herself. Now was not the time to continue to fall in love with him.

She rose stiffly to her knees and looked about. “Sinbad…” she tried to shout, but her tongue was swollen dry in her mouth. She limped from the bed of grass and Sinbad’s cloak to approach the pulsating waterfall. She drank long and deep, letting the cold, pure water seep into her throat. Not wanting to harm her system, she rose steadily and looked around for spies. Seeing none, she began to sing an old Gaelic song.

Maeve sang for all she was worth, and a soft ethereal cry answered her. The high pitch call filled the stream that fed into the waterfall’s pool, and the soft shifting of the wind grew cool and relaxing. Maeve looked down the stream. The moonlight cast a silvery shadow on Fella as she galloped towards Maeve. Her long horn gleamed as the light accented it, and her long mane flowed over her eyes as she slid to a stop. Maeve watched as she tossed her forelock out of her eyes to peer at Maeve’s injured figure. The mare bent her head to Maeve’s, nuzzling the soft skin of Maeve’s cheek. Maeve sighed and lightly touched the muzzle, feeling the warmth, love, and friendship she found in the mare. The mare continued to nuzzle her, healing power forming between the two. Maeve opened her eyes as she felt Quill’s velvet muzzle touching his mate’s.

Two of them! And in one night! The colonel thought greedily. Over fifty men hid in the bush with them. The following of the captain had left them with an adequate trail. No matter that he wasn’t there, the Cauchalain bitch was defenseless and had no clue they were there. He cocked the poisoned arrow carefully, aiming at the stallion’s jugular.

Maeve did, however, know that they were there. She kept a single eye on the archers as she calmed Quill and Fella. The unicorns were close to oblivious, but they seemed tense and ready to go. Maeve knew that they wished to kill her, but Sinbad probably carried the treaty anyway. It was then that she heard the twang of an arrow, aimed at her first. She caught it with a single hand, and looked up as an arrow flew at Quill. She couldn’t stop it with her rusty reflexes, so she sprang, praying that she wasn’t too late.

Quill screamed in rage as Maeve’s body flew backwards into his, but he heard the barrage of arrows and whistled for Fella to flee. He felt the sting of an arrowhead, and tried to spring after Fella, but the poison was seeping into his blood. He didn’t know when his hindquarters failed him and he groaned as his vision turned watery, then black.

The soldiers held their arrows and swords ready as they approached both creatures. They fixed an iron halter on the stallion, and slowly approached the girl. She was trembling, fighting the poison as it made her limbs fail her. A soldier sneered at her in contempt, and Maeve suddenly lurched to her feet, springing to Quill. The soldiers backed off, for their fear of superstition was higher than anything else.

Maeve felt tears rise in her eyes as she saw the noble head outstretched, his flanks moving slowly, the gleaming horn lying softly in the mud and fresh dew of the morning. She collapsed, her head on his neck as she wept. “I’m so sorry, old friend, I should have warned you…I’m so sorry,” she sobbed quietly. The unicorn whickered softly, and Maeve looked into his dark eyes. She saw his soul still there, but then she saw a reflection behind her. A soldier. Maeve whirled to him, and was sent into unconsciousness by the side of his club.

Quill screamed as he struck the boards heavily. He could feel the pen’s effect on him as he began to race back and forth as far as his chain would let him. He stopped, his once crystalline eyes turned red. He shrilled his rage at the separation from his mate. Horses nearby trembled at the sound, and a few stallions answered with their own call. Quill heard the footsteps outside of his pen, and slowly turned his head. He caught the scent and lowered his horn, teeth bared and hooves ready. The man suddenly appeared by the door, a cruel sneer on his lips. The stallion launched himself at the man, his horn aimed at his chest. The man easily sidestepped and the stallion’s momentum sent him to his side as the chain drew up the slack. Quicker than the stallion, the man sat on the unicorn’s neck, drawing a beaded whip out slowly. Quill’s flanks trembled as his fury took in. The man brought the whip down hard on the stallion’s barrel, the stallion whistling in pain.

“I’ve longed to capture you, proud beast, and that Cauchalain bitch. And now I have you to be ridden underneath me. You and your guardian need equal breaking of the spirit. Do you prefer I ride you first, or ride her?” He smirked as the stallion thrashed beneath him at the last words. “Very well.” The tormenter began his “breaking” of the stallion.

Doubar took a long draught of his ale, feeling the heavy alcohol slip down his throat. Rongar, Firouz, and Bryn all sat at the mess table, eyes downcast. The search for Sinbad was futile. The men could hardly believe that Maeve had captured their captain, and Bryn barely knew how to console them. Doubar took another swig. “He was a good man, my brother,” he said quietly. The rest of the crew nodded glumly. Suddenly, a teasing voice filled their ears.

“Oh, come now, I didn’t die!” The crew looked up to see their captain, short hair and all, smiling at them. Doubar shouted in joy and swung his brother into a hug. “Doubar…can’t…breathe…”Sinbad gasped. His brother released him and let the rest of the crew have a turn. Bryn gave him a peck on the cheek and hug, and Firouz and Rongar each gave him a hearty hug. Firouz ran a hand through his own wild hair.

“Sinbad! What happened? Did you escape?” came the rushed questions. Sinbad sat down and told them the story, omitting some parts for his own personal reasons. Bryn shook her head.

“Whoa…this is heavy,” she stated. Sinbad nodded with a sigh. Doubar clapped his brother on the shoulder.

“What matters is that you’re safe, and you have a treaty!” he exclaimed loudly. Firouz and Rongar nodded and Bryn agreed.

“Now they can send the Cauchalain back to her home.” Sinbad’s head snapped to her.

“What did you just say?” he asked sharply. Bryn moved to answer when a ceremonial horn was blown. The crew drifted out the tent flap and saw a crowd guarded around the horse pen. Doubar pushed soldiers and healers out of the way to get to a good viewpoint and the newly reunited crew looked down at the pen. Bryn’s heart nearly stopped.

A unicorn stallion was tied closely to a strong post, cris-cross strips of blood colouring his white haunches. He was whistling constantly, and sending out his mystical calls frantically. Bryn and Sinbad were the only ones to hear them and Bryn felt her dark eyes tearing up at the suicidal notes. A tall, thin man of rank came out near the stallion.

“Army of mine and my allies, there has been a treaty signed! But we have a bit of leverage against these barbarians! We have captured one of the unicorns! Soon, his power will be the Allies!” the colonel yelled to his public. Some cheers rang through the ranks. The stallion screamed once, then fell silent. “But…we thought…the Irish could be a large threat with their powerful leader, so we have taken the heart of their heritage. Behold…the woe of our army…The Cauchalain!” Sinbad’s eyes narrowed, and his hand was at his sword. The soldiers were hushed with anticipation.

A tall, bloodied woman was brought to the arena, where she was shoved to the ground. Two hulking men stood over her, hands on their swords even as she stood. Maeve looked around at her enemy, seeing and hearing the men make catcalls. Maeve turned tortured eyes to the unicorn, seeing his breath rise and fall slowly.

He would die in captivity, and the foal in Fella’s belly would become a twin, so that the pair could live on. The unicorn and Maeve knew that Fella would kill herself shortly afterward, and neither would stand for it. The colonel grabbed her by the hair and snarled into her ear.

“Be prepared for death, or utter humiliation, bitch,” he was about to draw his whip when a shout was heard. Men yelled as a tall black mare strode into the arena, a tall black-haired man seated on her back.

“Colonel, I dare say that you have stepped over the boundaries of the treaty.” The man’s Irish lit filled the large area, and Bryn’s breath caught in her throat. Somehow, she knew him, all of him. He looked into the crowd.

“The unicorn shall go free, because he has no place in this war. Your greed shows and it humiliates your homes. How dare you all decide that all land is yours?” he shouted with contempt. The colonel stepped forward.

“We claim life of the Cauchalain, for she has done a great wrong. She shall travel to the jails on the Floating Island, where she shall suffer for her wrongdoings.” The Irishman turned to the man. His shoulders slumped, and a nod was seen. Sinbad suddenly rode into the arena on Ebony, who whistled at the mare.

“How long shall she be in this jail?” he demanded. The other man shrugged.

“Until she renounces the title of Cauchalain.” Sinbad looked at the crowd, then suddenly wheeled and threw his dagger at the chain holding the unicorn. The chain snapped under the velocity of the throw and the stallion felt his halter loosen. He bolted and as he ran, Irishman made a sign that caused the stallion to disappear, along with himself. Maeve looked up from where she had been thrown, and caught Sinbad’s eyes. Her eyes held betrayal deep in their depths. There was something else in them, something that Sinbad had only seen for Rumina. He had unknowingly led them right to her, for he had forgotten the each captain had on him a tracking amulet.

The colonel gestured to the men, and they grabbed her roughly, dragging her roughly to where the jails where. Sinbad looked at the sneering man. “I demand the right to speak with her.”

She lay there, listening to the rumbles of an army packing up to leave. She could feel the earth trembling slightly under the weight of such boldness to capture a unicorn. She shifted her long, coppery hair out of her face to take a look at the barred windows, and gazed long at the dark moon. No, Dim Dim would not come now, that she knew. When she had told him before the feast that Sinbad would live longer still, he had left almost too solemnly. Perhaps he had known that for Sinbad to live, Maeve would have to be taken away. Maeve shifted uncomfortably at the thought, trying to get some sleep. It was then that she heard a rude tap on the cell door, and the creak of it opening. Maeve shifted her brown eyes to the chain links above her. The slowly rusting cuffs that were fastened too tightly to her wrists bit into her skin, causing her to lay still and move slowly.

She stood up, hidden in the shadows as the three men and one woman gazed about the dark and almost empty cell. A fourth man entered and Maeve had to hold herself back from tearing out his throat. He stood to one side, arms folded stubbornly on his chest as he stared straight ahead. Maeve’s brown eyes burned with anger as Sinbad took a step forward, obviously looking for her. Maeve tried to hold herself back, but she ended up launching herself at Sinbad, and she was able to connect her fist to his abdomen. Sinbad grimaced in pain, but caught her before she could retreat and made her lay down. She blinked back tears of rage, as Sinbad stared down at her, his eyes filled with unspoken emotions. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll come for you.”

Maeve shot awake at the words, and found herself bumping her head against a low bunk bed. She looked around the tightly enclosed room and sighed heavily. Her heart seemed only to have grown heavier. Her conscious begged her to realize that Sinbad had been ignorant of his tracker because of his concern for her. But she fought that harder, reminding herself that when Sinbad had visited her, he had said that was unable to free her, and even if he did have the power, he was still unsure about her own reliability. Maeve glared at the side of the heavily rocking boat, being tossed by the furious sea. By the Goddess, if she had to live in the cell forever, he would never pull this again.

It was then, that the ship, as strong as she had been, capsized.

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