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Year 3013 C.A.
A season was not really long enough to get to know anyone all that well. But Zykriel set his mind to making the most of the time allotted him upon his return to Medav. His family’s reaction to his decision had not been as easy to deal with.
To say they were dismayed was an understatement. His parents pleaded with him not to take such a drastic step and Gilmael did not hold in his rage. He went about with so stormy an expression household attendants and Ministry staff alike nervously scurried out of his way. And when the news reached the other members of House Essendri, the figurative storm it unleashed had been ferocious. Not a day passed during the following weeks that a cousin did not contact him via mind-speech or seek him out when he sojourned briefly in Rikara.
Only Jareth Hadrana and Keosqe Deilen expressed cautious support of his decision. The others’ reactions ranged from outraged incredulity to angry resignation. Rohyr’s half-brother Dylen maintained neutrality about the whole business. But Zykriel suspected he was far from pleased and only held his tongue out of respect for Rohyr and perhaps obedience as well.
Surprisingly, he found an ally in Rohyr’s mate, as well as a bulwark against the protests over making Zykriel a concession to secure an alliance with the Hegemony. Perhaps Lassen spoke up due to Rohyr’s distress at every charge of reducing a Deir to the status of chattel for the sake of political expediency. During a dinner at the Citadel where several cousins were present, he waited for Keiran Arthanna to finish his tirade and then said his piece.
“Your objections to Zykriel’s compliance strike me as odd given that Roh demanded me in return for his protection of my hometown,” he said, his voice low but clear in the sudden quiet that befell the gathering. People tended to forget that the Ardis’s delicate features belied a core of iron. “Going by your reasoning, that compact made me chattel, yet I don’t recall hearing protests from any of you at the time. But perhaps you deemed it acceptable since I was just a commoner from a backwater town.”
The atmosphere turned painfully awkward. Not a few faces reddened in regret and embarrassment. Effusive apologies swiftly followed.
Hereafter, opposition to Zykriel’s decision was voiced in more considered terms and eventually most came around and threw their support behind him. Only Gilmael remained openly opposed, but he strove to speak with restraint.
Not unexpectedly, Imcael Essendri approved of Zykriel’s choice. The haughty brother of Rohyr’s late sire made no bones about how proud he was of his nephew and conveyed his felicitations through his son Mahael who’d taken his place in the Council after he retired from court. Zykriel suspected the Herun’s approval had more to do with his taking a highborn Deir to spouse and not the carrying out of his duty—Imcael had been severely disappointed when his two older sons had wed Deira of lower station. So Zykriel thanked Mahael for passing on the message and promptly shoved it into the furthermost corner of his mind.
He knew the majority of his kin continued to have reservations about the situation, but he refused to be disheartened. Instead he anchored his determination on the voices of agreement and encouragement. In the end, it was he who would have to live with the consequences.
With the peace and security of the kingdom and his home fief at stake, there was no other choice to make.
––––––––
It was not so bad living in Elana, Zykriel thought as he surveyed the city from his bedchamber window one late spring morning. He’d waited out the cold season before journeying back to Medav. The height of a harsh Losshen winter would still be mild in comparison to what the far north endured. He did not care to suffer through his first Nazcan winter before he was wed. He had the rest of his life for that.
The Prime and his sons were cordial and courteous, even Lioval who unabashedly cultivated his snide manner and bawdy wit. Qristan was no less salty or mocking of tongue but he did not make it his mission to discomfit folk just for the fun of it. Furthermore, he was no idle lord yet he took time out from each busy day to keep his betrothed company, a kindness Zykriel appreciated.
Ever so often he would catch a glimpse of Ris, the earthy, playful and delightfully forthright Deir he met his first night in Elana. When he allowed himself a rare bout of wistfulness, he admitted to missing that version of his intended.
Qristan was essentially kind and warm with him, but he maintained a certain aloofness that sometimes left Zykriel feeling a tad isolated. And he could be as derisive as his younger brother if he disliked or disagreed with some point or other, not mincing words even if they gave offense. On the other hand, he was also circumspect about his thoughts and feelings, which gave Zykriel the impression he would never really know his spouse as well as he would like.
He supposed it was to be expected. Theirs was not a love match, only a union of political convenience. Still, he preferred a little more openness if only for guidance in dealing with his future spouse and family-by-law. It was one more reminder that he was a stranger alone in a strange land.
Fortunately, most of the castle attendants were much like the Citadel folk—courteous, dutiful and loyal to their masters. He was seldom made to feel like an interloper despite his foreignness. And the city invited further exploration. There was much that piqued his curiosity and he rode out almost daily to ferret out Elana’s attractions, as well as better understand the people the Shidaras ruled.
Surprisingly, the Prime had agreed to all of Rohyr’s stipulations. Zykriel had expected no problems regarding the demand that he only handfast to Qristan. Many arranged unions were solemnized through handfasting rites, the only form of marriage that could be dissolved. He’d also anticipated little opposition to the condition he reside in Medav only half of each year and that any children be born in Ylandre. What he had thought would be a bone of contention was the proviso that these children carry his surname. Yet Eulan readily acceded to it.
Zykriel thought this odd and wondered if Qristan was required to beget heirs for Medav. However, Qristan laughed it off when he mentioned the issue saying it mattered little whether he had children or not since he was not the heir apparent.
“But you're a Viarl,” Zykriel pointed out. “Don't you want sons to whom you can pass your title and lands?”
Qristan shrugged. “I don’t really care either way. My brothers or their sons will inherit if I don't have children. But you needn’t worry about providing heirs for Losshen. I’m amenable to breeding sons with you.”
Zykriel felt a twinge of disappointment at his intended’s indifference. Whether he wed for love or duty, he’d always expected his spouse to share his desire for children.
“And shall I bear them since it is I who wants them?” he tightly asked.
“Preferably of course,” Qristan replied with irritating blitheness. “Rest you, I’ll do my part should you find it difficult to conceive or carry a babe to term. I know my duty.”
“Your duty.” Zykriel sighed. “Would that more than duty binds us eventually. Polite conversation is hardly the stuff a happy marriage is made of.”
Qristan chuckled. “I rather imagine our conversations will be far from polite. And in any case, I’ll be content if we find each other’s company tolerable.” Zykriel could not help flinching at his reply. Whereupon Qristan quickly added, “But I think we shall get along splendidly. You’re much what I desire in a spouse. I hope you’ll believe the same of me one day.”
Zykriel dipped his chin in agreement. “I hope so too. I’ve no wish to seek comfort outside of our marriage.”
Qristan’s eyebrows rose. “So you oppose conditional fidelity?”
“Conditional fidelity? What does that even mean?”
“I’m surprised you must ask. After all, your cousin practiced it during his first marriage.”
“Because he kept Lassen as his leman?” Zykriel shook his head. “Rohyr removed the promise of fidelity from his vows for that very reason. And he would have allowed Tyrde to do likewise but for our laws that prohibit a ruling lord’s consort from indulging in extramarital relations.”
“Oh aye, to ascertain every child birthed by said consort is his lord spouse’s true born son.” Qristan snorted. “A double standard legitimized by fiat.”
Zykriel bristled at the aspersion on Ylandrin tradition. “You’re one to talk considering your father conducted an affair with the palace guard captain. And since he did not reveal when he conceived Lioval, no one could tell for certes who begot him because he took after your ama in appearance and none in your family is blessed with that particular gift of discernment.”
Qristan’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s a closely guarded secret,” he said in a hushed voice. “None outside of Aba’s innermost circle have an inkling of what really took place. How do you know of it?”
“You forget, I’m brother to the head of Ylandre’s Intelligence Ministry,” Zykriel answered with some pride. “He learned all he could about your family.”
“Admirable,” Qristan murmured. “And did he discover my ama’s fate?”
Zykriel nodded. “As well as his lover’s. The guard captain was tried for treason, hanged and buried in an unmarked grave. Your father was confined to his quarters until his son was born after which he was immured in the most remote monastery in Medav where he died some years ago. I shudder to think what would have been done to Lioval had it been proved that he was the fruit of that illicit union.”
“Drowned likely,” Qristan said with a grimace. He looked at Zykriel contritely. “You’re right, I had no call to speak thusly. Please forgive me. I swear I’ll endeavor to school my tongue and mind my manners.” A shadow seemed to darken his eyes. “You likely don’t believe me now, but I do wish to be a mate whose company you’ll welcome more oft than not.”
Zykriel did not really believe Qristan would be able to keep his word. But the latter’s admission of fault and apology went some way in persuading him to give him a bit of leeway.
“I want amicability between us,” he simply said.
Qristan smiled in obvious relief and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “So do I,” he said with genuine fervor. “I like you very much, Zyk. I’ll have you know I fell in lust with you from the outset,” he added, a roguish grin gracing his lips. Zykriel rolled his eyes but could not help grinning back. Qristan’s next words, so softly spoken they were little more than whispered, left him almost speechless. “I wouldn't mind falling in love with you.”
That was unexpected given Qristan’s skepticism of all things romantic. Zykriel felt a welling of warmth in his breast. His grin widened into a smile. “Then we are in accord.”
When confronted with these shifts in moods and manner, Zykriel wondered what was innate and what was assumed. He knew which he preferred but he tried not to pin any hopes on his preference being his betrothed’s true self.
A knock on the door pulled him out of his reminiscences. He strode to the door and pulled it open. It was Qristan’s personal aide.
He met Davian son of Ilvaz his second day in residence at the castle. Apparently, there were many Medavi who still identified themselves through their sire’s given name.
“Your guests are arriving,” Davian said.
He did not use the honorific due a noble. And he maintained direct eye contact with Zykriel. Unless explicitly ordered or improperly trained, servants did not focus their gaze on their superiors. Granted, in public, Davian was careful to feign a subservient demeanor with him, but with such cool courtesy and an ingratiatingly servile manner that it bordered on disrespectful.
Were he the sort to stand on ceremony, Zykriel would have sought Davian’s immediate dismissal. He wondered if the Deir was distrustful of foreigners and resented having to serve one. He hoped it was nothing deeper than that.
He dipped his chin in curt acknowledgement. The slight flush that suffused the Deir’s cheeks told him the latter recognized his unspoken reproach and the tacit insult that he was not worth the effort of a good reprimand. Anger flashed in Davian’s eyes which he was quick to suppress, but not quick enough to escape notice. He obviously realized his misstep and dropped his stare.
Mayhap he was a tenured retainer. Hence his boldness. But lengthy service was no guarantee of security if one offended a superior enough to warrant a demand that one be sent packing.
Zykriel strode past the Deir and made his way down the hall to the stairs. He descended to the reception hall and hastened to the great double doored entrance where the Shidaras were gathering.
“Good morn,” Qristan greeted him along with a cheek kiss, a sign of affection among the Medavi. “We missed you at breakfast.”
“I beg pardon,” Zykriel said, returning the gesture with more confidence as he further accustomed himself to Medavian traditions. “I had a tray brought to my quarters. I went over the room assignments and made some changes.”
Diarmin raised his eyebrows. “Why? Do you think our staff not equal to the task?”
“Not at all. But they don't know my kin. I thought to spare the other guests the discomfort of overhearing certain nocturnal activities.”
For a moment, the Shidaras regarded him in startled silence. And then Lioval guffawed while the Prime slightly smiled.
“I take it your cousins don't trouble to keep their voices down,” Eulan remarked.
“Uncle Yovan too. He can match any of us in concupiscence. When you see his spouse, you'll understand why.”
“But not Imcael Essendri?” Diarmin ventured.
Zykriel shrugged. “Well, he had two consorts and three sons. Of course, I don’t know if the number of times he's coupled matches the number of his sons—” He paused when the brothers snickered. “But he's stiff-necked as they come and a stickler for propriety and the like. He was constantly taking us all to task for any misbehavior when he still came to court.”
Lioval shuddered. “What a bore! How did you bear his company?”
“By avoiding it as much as possible.”
Just then, a retainer came to them and announced the imminent arrival of the Ylandrin party. Zykriel followed the Shidaras, stepping out onto the courtyard in time to see a cavalcade of splendidly caparisoned zentyra trot in, their massive hooves clattering on the stone pavement. Their riders were as richly clad, their shoulders mantled by costly wool-lined cloaks. All sported bejeweled swords and almost every head was crowned with a circlet of gold or silver indicating that the noblest of blood coursed through their veins.
The accompanying warriors were no less well garbed or mounted. They were clothed in finely tailored uniforms of good wool and linen and armed with masterfully crafted swords and lances, their thoroughbred steeds as proud and fierce of carriage as their horned cousins.
It was a show of force and from the stares and gapes of the attendants and guards, an effective one. Zykriel heard Lioval softly growl, “It isn't even the wedding yet!”
He could not quite stifle a grin. Attired in sumptuous traveling clothes, Rohyr was every inch the monarch of a great kingdom. It was a rare sight.
The Ardan did not usually flaunt either wealth or power. This display was his way of making it clear to all that Zykriel was a member of one of Aisen’s most prominent families and a scion of the preeminent House in the North Continent and therefore not to be trifled with.
His parents and brother had come as had Yovan, this time with his spouse Mered and their only son Rysander. Rohyr’s beloved half-brother Dylen was with him, but sans his mate Riodan Leyhar who was on a diplomatic assignment abroad. Also present was Ronuin, the younger of Imcael’s remaining sons who'd made the trip on Mahael’s behalf.
Zykriel was fairly sure Imcael had refused to allow his heir and admittedly more capable son to risk a potentially risky sojourn. It was in direct contrast to his other kinsfolk who sincerely regretted being unable to attend his nuptials and tender him their support.
Reijir Arthanna, Herun of Ilmaren, was keeping an eye on an escalating feud between two of his barons and perforce left it to his brother Keiran to represent their family. And Tribune Ranael Mesare’s birthing of his first child had been difficult. He’d been advised not to travel far for at least a year. But two of his numerous brothers, Osrin and Tobyr, had accompanied his mate Captain Vaeren Henaz of the Ardan’s Guard. Aeldan Mithani on the other hand was alone because his sire the Herun of Glanthar was ill while his brother Ashrian and physician brother-by-law Eiren Sarvan were on a medical mission in the southern province of Velarus.
Fortunately, Ambassador Jareth Hadrana and his consul spouse Yandro, Rohyr’s young ward Shino Essendri, and Keosqe Deilen and his parents the Herun and Heris of Sidona were able to cull enough time from their busy schedules to attend the wedding.
Zykriel pursed his lips to hide a smirk when Eulan and his sons strove to set aside their pride and greet Rohyr and Lassen as befitted the couple’s higher station. They managed it for the most part, but it was an obvious struggle for them.
It did not help that Ylandre’s Ardan and Ardis were beautiful individually, breathtaking as a pair and incomparable as parents to possibly the comeliest toddler this side of the Samaran Sea. And soon there would be another prince. Zykriel grinned when he noticed the ever so slight roundness of Lassen’s belly.
When he was done with the formalities, Rohyr swept Zykriel into his arms before releasing him into Lassen’s quick hug. They both looked him over, their concern thinly veiled.
“I trust you are well?” Rohyr questioned. “They treat you fairly?”
“Fairly enough,” Zykriel said. “I’m learning their ways and Qristan is learning ours.”
“Is he?” Lassen softly asked. “Your last letter hinted that you’re doing more than your share of adjusting to the situation.”
Zykriel smiled at Lassen’s careful phrasing. “For now, it is I who must adapt to this land since I’ll be residing here for some time. When we sojourn in Losshen, I warrant Qristan will put his mind to fitting in as well.”
“I hope your optimism isn’t baseless,” Rohyr said.
When he returned his attention to their hosts, he donned a neutral smile, striking a precise balance between cordial courtesy and cool politeness.
“Our thanks for the warm welcome,” he told Eulan. “Zykriel speaks highly of the Medavi’s hospitality.”
Eulan smiled back. It did not quite reach his eyes, but neither was his civility feigned. “Lord Zykriel will be kin-by-law before long and so will his kin by blood. It’s only right that we treat you as family too.” He extended a hand toward the great door. “Come, refresh yourselves and rest if you wish until noontide. The servants will conduct you to your quarters.”
Rohyr acknowledged the invitation with a nod and slightly warmer smile. He placed his hand on the small of Lassen’s back and ushered him into the castle. The others followed.
They did not hide their interest, but looked about avidly. It was not only curiosity that compelled them to study their surroundings. As the twins and their uncle had done their first visit to the castle, the Essendris made themselves aware of exits, strategic points of defense and possible places of concealment.
Zykriel wished it was not necessary for his kinsfolk to be on their guard at his wedding. Had his nuptials been set within the borders of Ylandre, there would be no need for such caution.
––––––––
To say that the castle residents and Elana’s citizens reacted to Zykriel’s guests with wariness and fascination was putting it mildly. The reputation of Ylandre’s premier House preceded its scions all over Aisen with unvarnished fact and wild rumor swapping places in varying degrees. Opinions about the Essendris depended largely on what little or much the individual knew of them. Some held them in high esteem and desired engagement with them. Others shied from their company in fear or suspicion or both.
Collectively they were a formidable and beauteous lot, exuding the assurance and authority that came with being born into great privilege.
Three days into their visit the Essendris eschewed the dining hall and chose to have breakfast at the trellised terrace several of their rooms overlooked. After socializing the previous days, it was time to take stock of the family and folk one of their own would be wedding into.
It was cool and breezy and comfortably sunlit, the leafy flowering vines threading the trellis providing color more than shade. Two long tables had been arranged side by side and a buffet of hearty Medavian breakfast fare set up against the wall. Zykriel had ensured the inclusion of familiar dishes like gammon and sausages, griddle cakes and fresh bread and cheese, as well as local specialties he’d learned to enjoy such as kippers, berry porridge, open-faced sandwiches and a soured milk beverage that was surprisingly addictive once one acquired a taste for it.
Jareth strolled out with Keosqe and explained to those at his table that Yandro would follow after he’d dispatched some urgent missives. Zykriel noted that Rohyr and Lassen were also tardy which was unusual. Rohyr in particular was punctual as a rule.
He was about to send a servant to inquire after the couple when Rohyr finally appeared with Dylen. Zykriel paused mid greeting when he realized the Ardan was walking with a slight hitch in his stride. Watching his cousin ease himself onto his seat, he wondered if he was imagining things until Keiran spoke up.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you so ungainly, Roh,” he remarked.
Rohyr exchanged a rueful smile with Dylen. “Lassen was a tad rough last night.”
“Lassen?” Mered Seydon half-exclaimed.
“Why?” Shino asked at the same time.
“Blame Lioval,” Rohyr replied. “The scoundrel is an incorrigible flirt. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself at dinner.”
“Don’t tell me he pawed you,” Ronuin said incredulously.
“Just short of it. Obviously, that didn’t please Lassen in the least.”
Keiran guffawed. “Obviously if he’s gone so far as to strip you of your grace.”
“And Lioval?” Rysander asked. “How did Lassen put him in his place?”
“He ‘accidentally’ dumped his soup onto Lioval’s lap,” Dylen said with a grin.
There was a concerted gasp followed by many a smirk and much laughter.
“So that’s what caused the commotion at your table,” Keosqe said. “Those were some choice words he let loose when he wasn't screaming.”
“You’d scream too if your crotch got doused with scalding soup,” Dylen quipped. “I wager it will be a while before he’s ready to rut against someone again. Imagine the state of his nether parts.”
Aeldan blinked. “I’d rather not. Saints! Who’d have thought Lassen capable of such retribution?”
At that moment, Lassen entered the terrace, clad head to toe in stark midnight blue even to the riband woven into his thick golden braid. He was dressed not to impress but to intimidate.
“If the occasion warrants it, I’m very capable,” he said with a dry smile. He sat beside his spouse. “I met him in the hallway,” he said to Rohyr. “For some reason, he scuttled away before I could bid him good morn. He was walking like you though far from happy about it.”
Rohyr chuckled. “Considering his unsteady gait has to do with being nigh boiled alive rather than buggered within an inch of his life, that isn’t too surprising.”
Zykriel rolled his eyes. “We don’t need to hear details.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jareth countered. He eyed Lassen speculatively. “So, Las, are you a broad sword or a long one?”
“Jath!”
Jareth sighed as Yandro glared at him from the doorway to the terrace.
“Whipped by a sprite half his size,” Shino murmured.
“I beg your pardon, Shin, I’m not half his size,” Yandro said as he sat down.
“You don’t deny the other charge though,” Rysander teased.
“Of course not. It’s the truth.”
Rohyr laughed. “Whipped indeed. Don’t try to pretend otherwise, Jath.” His grin evolved into a soft smile as he turned his gaze on Lassen. “We’ve been leashed and we're enjoying it to the full.”
Three quarters of an hour later, Mered took his leave as did the Herun and Heris of Sidona and Osrin and Tobyr. Vaeren ordered the attendants to clear the tables after which they were ushered out of earshot by his warriors. Following a quick rearrangement of the tables and chairs, the Essendris proceeded to voice their observations and concerns.
“It isn’t anything they’ve said or done thus far, but I have this nagging suspicion that they’re keeping something from us,” Yovan admitted after the others had spoken in a mostly positive light.
“I think so too,” Gilmael said.
“You’ve thought so since the start,” Zykriel reminded him.
“And if I have?“ Gilmael said a little testily. “I’m worried for you. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this charade than meets the eye.”
Ildris Calanthe looked at him in alarm. “You think this is a charade?”
Glaring at his twin, Zykriel reached over to cover his father’s hand with his own. “Calm down, Ama. Gil is just letting his biases get the better of him.”
Gilmael looked indignant. “My biases are justified. Uncle Van admitted to mistrust of the Shidaras too.”
Yovan shook his head. “I admit to some uneasiness about this whole business. But unless I can offer tangible evidence to support my misgivings, I have no right to contest anything. Bias has no place here. Particularly unfounded bias.”
“Unfounded?”
“Yes, Gil-min. You’re very much against your brother’s marriage and so you dislike its proponents to the extent that you’re determined to distrust them and find fault wherever possible.”
“Is this true?” Rohyr quietly asked.
Gilmael did not answer, but only scowled and stared straight ahead, his mouth a hard, grim line.
Keosqe looked at him wonderingly. “What’s got into you? You’ve never shied from your obligations even when you abhorred what was asked of you.”
“I’ve never been asked to watch my brother be married off to a complete stranger,” Gilmael snapped.
“Gil—”
“Nay, Aba, mayhap you’ve come to terms with this wretched arrangement but I haven't and I doubt I ever will.”
“Enough,” Rohyr commanded, his tone sharpening in a way he seldom used with his kin. “The time to protest this wedding is long past. As Uncle Van said, there’s no proof of deception or subterfuge, only feelings of unease which could very well stem from a lack of familiarity with the Shidaras or simple wariness of a political maneuver. There’s naught to base any course of action on beyond proceeding as planned. You’ve made your sentiments very clear, Gil, but at this point, I think it’s high time you set aside your opposition and lend Zyk your support instead. Veres knows he's going to need it should your suspicions prove correct.”
Surprised, Gilmael stared at him. “So you agree there’s something afoot?”
“I agree with Uncle Van that perhaps the Shidaras bear watching. He hasn’t allowed his emotions to influence his assessment as you have. Zyk will be treading an uncertain path as it is and he's going to need the guidance of cool minds, not hot heads. Don't let your feelings for your brother cloud your judgment.”
Gilmael caught his breath and gazed at Rohyr with what looked like apprehension. When his gaze was pointedly met, he flushed, nodded and proceeded to study his hands as if they were the most interesting things in Aisen. Zykriel wondered what had passed between the two. And from the others’ puzzled expressions, he knew he was not the only one.
Nevertheless, he was grateful for the respite from his twin’s pessimistic outbursts. He would need everyone's support if he was to make a success of his marriage. Unrelenting criticism would only make it more difficult for him to adjust to his spouse and accept him.
“Rest you all, I’m committed to this venture,” he said. “Qristan and I have our differences of opinion and beliefs, but it’s only to be expected. As for your suspicions, Uncle, I trust your instincts. Much more than I trust Gil’s.”
He held up a hand to his brother when he let out an angry huff. “You wouldn’t trust me either were we in each other’s shoes. Verily, I have noticed some reticence on Qristan’s part whenever I bring up our marriage. So far I’ve put it down to our unfamiliarity with each other. I’ve tried to be honest with him, but it isn’t easy. Not when I still regard him as a stranger and no doubt he looks at me thusly as well.”
“Do you believe that’s all it is?” Keiran asked. “Two Deira trying to get to know each other in such a short time, but constrained by caution?”
Zykriel considered the idea. At length, he shrugged and said, “Partly perhaps. But if Uncle Van senses something is off, then mayhap there’s indeed a need for caution.” He looked at his twin. “I will watch for signs of whatever it is that’s caused our unease. I know you sometimes see me as little more than a sheltered bookworm tucked away amidst the archives—yes, you do, don’t deny it—but you know full well that I’m capable of looking after myself.”
Gilmael bit his lower lip. He looked less the shrewd, ruthless head of a Ministry and more a fretful younger sibling. Ronuin reached over and patted his shoulder comfortingly.
“Mahael doesn’t like me to fuss over him either when he visits. He claims it’s his duty, not mine. Of course I don’t agree, but he insists and so I defer to his wishes.” Ronuin winked mischievously. “Or so I let him believe. I just order the servants to keep an eye on him and his family and see to their every need.”
Almost everyone smiled fondly. Ronuin was blandly affable and a tad slow-witted and so made for rather insipid company. But he was kindly and affectionate with his kinsfolk even those he did not have frequent contact with. For that everyone forgave him the misfortune of being Imcael’s son while thanking the Maker that he seldom came to court.
“My thanks, Ronu,” Gilmael murmured. He sighed and regarded Zykriel unhappily. “You’re right, you’ve never been a helpless Deir in distress. I beg your pardon. I’m just sore at heart is all.”
Zykriel peered at him with concern. “One would think you’re the one being married off.”
Gilmael shook his head. “I’m just upset that this has been foisted on you. You don’t deserve this.”
“I’m not the first or the only Deir to meet a fate not deserved. At least I do this knowing it’s for a greater good.”
“Always duty with you.”
“And not you?” Zykriel scoffed. “You’ve shown yourself dedicated to whatever cause falls in your lap. Rohyr wouldn't have appointed you head of Intelligence otherwise.”
Gilmael managed a wan smile, but spoke no more.
“I expect you to prioritize your well-being, Zyk,” Rohyr said at length. “Maintain caution and report anything unseemly. If you believe yourself compromised in any way, return to Ylandre posthaste, the alliance be damned.”
––––––––
“A farthing for your thoughts.”
A slow smile curved Qristan’s mouth before he turned to face Zykriel. “Only a farthing? Are they not worth a sovereign at least?”
Zykriel pointed out, “It depends on what those thoughts are.”
Qristan laughed briefly. “Fair enough.”
He indicated the window he’d been looking out of, one of several that lined the outer wall of the corridor. The windows faced east, toward the border between Medav and Bavia many leagues away.
“We just received word of outlawry near the marches,” Qristan’s smile soured. “The Bavians have let loose brigands on the border towns and villages since our army pushed their raiders back last winter.”
Zykriel nodded thoughtfully. “Similar to what the Cattanians attempted in Velarus several years back.”
“Aye, though in this case, they are merely trying to divert our attention away from any renewed military incursions.” Qristan snorted. “As if we’d pay more heed to bandits than invaders. Lamentably, it’s our people who pay the greatest price either way.” He clenched a fist and pounded it upon the window sill. ”The Vashtins are despicable. They’re a canker that needs to be dealt with as harshly as possible.”
Zykriel trained his gaze on the expansive vista beyond the city walls. The heather-laden plains and craggy hills were much alike to Losshen’s northernmost regions.
“If the Vashtins are so odious, why not expel them from the Hegemony?”
“We would lose Bavia,” Qristan replied, his gaze focused on the horizon as well. “The Bavians would follow the Vashtins and secede. Around here, loyalty is to one’s tetrarch.”
“If a tetrarch rebelled against the Prime, his people would follow him?”
“They would.”
“Then it's a wonder you're still a union.”
Perhaps noticing Zykriel’s incredulity, Qristan turned his full attention to him.
“We’re stronger together than apart. We pull together when the Hegemony is in conflict with another nation. It's when we're at peace that quarrels can erupt between domains. Yet still we share resources and maintain trade with each other to keep our economies stable. A strange state of affairs you might say, but this is our way and has been for almost two millennia. The Vashtins may try to gain more territory, but they won't attempt to arrogate all power to themselves. Another domain’s citizens would sooner fight back than accept the direct rule of a Deir not of their own.”
Zykriel stared in comprehension. “It’s literally more land they want, not the people who occupy it.”
“Exactly. Since their incursions started last year, refugees have been straggling into the border towns and villages. Not too many to over burden those communities, but in numbers enough to pique our annoyance.”
“They whittle away at your domain, but it’s you who bears the burden of supporting the folk they drive from their homes.”
“Aye.”
“And yet you can't eject them because that would lose you both land and people.” Zykriel shook his head. “Such reasoning confounds me.”
“Why? Would your Ardan chance losing any of Ylandre’s fiefs on account of a quarrel with its Herun?” Qristan challenged. “I understand he took Tyrde Kardova as his first consort to prevent a union between Anju and Cattania and hence stave off the possibility of an Ylandrin fief-lord of Cattanian blood.”
Neither confirming nor denying the charge, Zykriel asked, “How did you come to that conclusion? Rohyr’s reasons for wedding Tyrde were never made public.”
“The Cattanians haven't stopped grousing about their botched attempt to gain their prince an Anjuin spouse,” Qristan said. “Easy enough to deduce what happened given your cousin gave no indications of wedding any time soon only to do so suddenly. And with no love lost between himself and Kardova. Certainly nothing like what I see of him and his Ardis.”
He smiled almost wistfully. “I don't think I've ever seen such an obvious love match. Blindingly obvious.”
“Do you envy them?”
“Who wouldn't?” Qristan seemed to collect himself and grinning a bit lopsidedly, said, “But that's mawkish drivel. The stuff of faerie tales. I'm no sentimental fool to hanker after improbable happily ever afters.”
“Given that my parents and a number of my kin are living their own happily ever afters, I can't agree with you,” Zykriel countered. “It’s possible though perhaps not as frequent as most would like.”
“I won't dispute your assessment of your parents’ marriage,” Qristan said. “But the length of a union is no indication of love, merely the strength of belief in duty.”
Zykriel frowned. “You're quite the cynic.”
“I have good reason to be as you well know.”
“And I have good reason to think otherwise.”
“You’re lucky to have some basis for your optimism,” Qristan retorted, his tone somewhat bitter.
Zykriel regarded him sympathetically. “I won't mind if you derive some reassurance from it,” he softly said.
Qristan stared at him. “I just might,” he murmured. He huffed a dry chuckle. “You’re a different breed, aren't you?”
“I hope you mean that in a positive light,” Zykriel quipped in a bid to lighten the mood.
“Oh, I do.” Qristan smiled and folding his arms, leaned sideways against the window frame. “You're a good sort, Zyk. Better than my own brothers or yours.”
Zykriel shook his head. “Gilmael’s reputation isn't the most pristine, but he's loyal to a fault if he deems you worthy. And for all his disapproval of our match, had you chosen him instead, I warrant he’d have agreed to it for duty’s sake. Granted, he’d have done so grudgingly and made no bones about his displeasure. Very likely at the top of his voice just to annoy as many of you as possible.”
Qristan snickered. “I can believe that. You’re something of a paradox even if you're identical in appearance. Fascinating, I must say. Do twins run in your family? Think you we will have a set of our own?”
Zykriel could not quite help a thrill at Qristan’s apparent shift from indifference to interest in the begetting of children.
“Twins have appeared only in my ama’s family, but infrequently and not always identical. The last set was born three generations ago and neither brother begot twins. So there's no surety either Gilmael or I will.”
“Hmm, a pity if you don't. We’d have heirs to our titles and lands in one fell swoop.”
“I thought it didn't matter to you whether you bred heirs or not.”
Qristan hesitated before replying a little sheepishly. “I did say that, didn't I? Methinks I should recant my statement. My holdings in Dharra are quite substantial and provide more than enough income to support a fair-sized family. If we have children, I'd much prefer one of them inherits my title and properties rather than either of my brothers.”
Choosing not to comment on Qristan’s apparent change of heart, Zykriel asked, “Where is Dharra?”
“Nigh to the Asturian marches in the west. I'll take you there once we wed. My people will want to see you.”
Zykriel smiled. “And mine will give you a right welcome when you come to Losshen.”
It was a subtle probe for information. Zykriel wondered if Qristan cared enough to wish to visit his fief.
“Then we should make time for such a welcome.” Zykriel’s relief gave way to pleasure when Qristan locked arms with him and drew him down the hallway. “It’s a fine day for riding. Come, keep me company. I’ve heard much gossip about your kin. I would like to know which are true and which are just hearsay.”
“The way rumors spread, it's likely you've heard more fiction than fact. I don't know if that's good or bad for my House’s reputation. Some truths about us may prove more shocking than any scandal soup you've been served thus far.”
Rich laughter merrily resounded as they made their way to the bailey. Zykriel decided he would not mind hearing it often especially if it was he who coaxed it out of his spouse.
His spouse? When had he started to think possessively of Qristan? For that matter, when had he learned to deem him his mate with such ease?