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Year 3014 C.A.
Gilmael paused at the entrance to the archives, a cavernous hall of shelves, cabinets and vaults abrim with documents, assorted publications, maps and charts, and all manner of equipment from military devices to mechanical and scientific instruments. This repository of everything deemed necessary for the smooth operation of the most extensive intelligence network in the North Continent took up all of the east wing of the building and was starting to encroach on the floor above which could be reached via a circular staircase at the back of the hall. It would soon rival the Citadel archives in terms of sheer size and content.
Small wonder it was almost impossible to keep completely in order. More than once something Gilmael asked for took what felt like an eternity to find. But that was not the case any longer. Not since Imri Viraz took over.
It had taken a long, slow while given the state of the archives. His predecessor’s illness had got in the way of his responsibilities. But Imri finally achieved the near impossible, restoring order to the section and creating a more efficient system of cataloguing. One result was swifter retrieval of the archive’s contents.
As Gilmael walked down the main aisle of the hall toward the chief archivist’s office, he grudgingly acknowledged that Imri’s colleagues at Foreign Affairs had not exaggerated his abilities. Nor had his superiors been precipitate in pushing for his filling of a high position in another Ministry.
Mayhap it's one of the reasons he and Zykriel managed to get along, he mused, loath though he was to admit his brother and the Viraz heir had anything in common.
They both possessed a knack for tidying up chaos and getting everyone else to follow suit. The Citadel archives had not been in a much better state when Rohyr appointed Zykriel head archivist. Now it was almost unrecognizable in its pristine orderliness.
Thoughts of his twin brought a pang to his heart and he paused mid stride. They'd never been apart so long or resided far from each other before. He missed Zykriel with a fierceness that made waking up cheerful in the morning a chore. He wondered if Qristan Shidara was treating him well and found himself plotting the Deir’s demise if he was not.
Gilmael sighed and shoved thoughts of murder and heartache aside. He resumed walking.
There seemed to be no one about. But since it was just after midday, it was likely most people were lingering in the dining hall or at one of the many eateries down the road. He wondered if there was anyone in the archives section or if he would have to send for what he needed later.
He made the turn behind the last row of bookshelves fronting Imri’s office and promptly collided with a bundle of energy. Or rather his knees did. Gilmael reflexively grabbed at the little Deir before he could fall on his tender bottom.
He stared at the child in intuitive recognition. Save for his bright blue eyes, the silver-haired, fine-featured tot resembled Imri as he must have looked at the same age.
“Mishar!”
Imri hurried up to them, a frown creasing his brow. The child turned to face him, his eyes widening and a pout pursing his lips. Gilmael thought he had never seen anything so adorable. An instant later, he stiffened in dismay that he'd entertained such a thought.
Imri got down on one knee so he was eye-level with his son. “What did I say about running around in here?”
Mishar bit his lower lip then replied in his piping child’s voice. “I'm not supposed to. I'm sorry, Aba.”
“It’s Lord Gilmael who merits your apology,” Imri gently pointed out. He stood and motioned to his son to turn around.
Gilmael offered Mishar an encouraging smile when the child looked up at him, blinking his eyes in obvious trepidation. How strange to see a Viraz so meek and humble.
“I'm sorry, Dyhar,” Mishar mumbled.
“Apology accepted,” Gilmael softly replied. He glanced at Imri. “Even did he not call you Aba, I’d know him for your son. Only the color of his eyes are different.”
Imri nodded. “My family’s blood runs strong in him.”
But not your pride. Gilmael bit back the words before they escaped him. “Do you bring him here often?”
“Only when there’s no one to care for him at home.”
“Has he no regular caregiver?”
“He did until recently. I haven't found a suitable replacement yet. And I don't care to leave him with untrained servants. But I assure you this won't happen again.”
Gilmael looked down at Mishar once more. The little Deir was regarding him with curiosity though he'd tucked himself against his sire’s legs.
“I don't mind if you bring him with you,” Gilmael said. “So long as he behaves himself. And you will, won't you, Mishar?”
For a moment the tot looked like a fawn cornered by hunters. But he recovered and shyly smiling, said, “Yes, Dyhar.” He looked up at Imri and whispered, “I like him, Aba.”
Gilmael stared at the child in surprise and burgeoning pleasure. The pleasure fizzled when Imri glanced at him with a frown. It was clear he was far from pleased.
“That is ... magnanimous of you, Mish-min,” he said while warily eyeing Gilmael.
His caution stung though Gilmael could hardly blame him. They seldom talked to each other. And what few words they did exchange while not overtly hostile were either coldly bland or subtly barbed.
“Whatever issues I may have with others, I would never inflict my anger on a child,” he said, trying to keep the ire and unexpected hurt out of his voice. “Especially one as sweet and magnanimous as your son.”
He wondered belatedly if Mishar could sense the combative undercurrents of their exchange. But the little Deir was gazing at them with the innocent interest of a child. Gilmael was relieved. For some reason, he did not want to trouble Mishar or sink in his regard.
“But of course.” Imri tightly smiled. “My apologies for implying otherwise.”
“I wasn't asking for—”
Imri smoothly cut him off, saying, “Ah! Look at the time, Mishar.” He indicated the archive’s great clock. “It's time for your nap. Go now, you know where to sleep.”
He leaned down as his son went up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his lips. Mishar glanced at Gilmael and bade him a merry, “Good day, Dyhar!” He then scampered into his sire’s office.
Shuttered windows with adjustable horizontal slats allowed the office’s occupant to view the hall. Gilmael glimpsed Mishar through the open slats as he clambered onto a small couch which Imri had turned into a makeshift bed. The child snuggled into the beddings, his small face a picture of contentment.
Gilmael’s throat tightened at the sight. Mishar reminded him of his nephews. He loved them dearly and tried to see them as often as possible. Now here was another child who tugged at his heartstrings with little effort.
He became aware that Imri was watching him. His indignation got the better of him and he said, “What now, Viraz? Will you forbid your son to associate with me? Or perhaps impugn my name to turn him against me?”
Imri’s eyes gleamed with anger. “And you wonder why I distrust you,” he retorted. “My son is no pawn to use in my quarrels. If he likes you, so be it though what he sees in you only Veres knows. I desire a fraught-free childhood for him unlike the one I had to suffer.”
“Suffer?” Gilmael scoffed. “What could you possibly know of suffering, the son of one of the wealthiest bluebloods in the land? Why, did your sire deny you the services of a healer when you stubbed your toe? Or perhaps some scullion refused your overtures and made you feel the inadequate fool. Verily, I don't think you understand the true meaning of suffering.”
Imri clenched a fist. “So says a Deir who knows nothing of life under attainder. You’ve never been jeered by erstwhile friends once they learned of your family’s past. Or refused by Deir after Deir for fear that marriage with you will likewise taint them. Or had to claw your way up the ranks because your colleagues have no compunction about using your history to call your trustworthiness into question.” He jabbed a finger into Gilmael’s chest. “Until you've experienced what I have, you’ve no right to lecture me on what it is to suffer, Gilmael Calanthe.”
Though he knew he'd spoken out of turn, Gilmael could not let the accusation pass. He slapped Imri’s hand away and stepped forward until they were almost nose to nose.
“Blame your so-called suffering on your benighted foresire who chose to back the wrong Essendri,” he snapped. “The outcome was only to be expected. The foresworn were damned while the righteous gained their just reward.”
Imri did not back down though splotches of red started to color his cheeks. “The righteous? There was nothing righteous about Baron Calanthe’s decision. He supported Wylan because he was promised the lordship of Losshen. Had Rovar Essendri done the same your esteemed foresire would have changed sides without a second thought!”
The charge of mercenary dealings and two-facedness set Gilmael’s temper ablaze. “Your blackguard of a foresire thought it worth the consequences of turning against Ylandre’s rightful ruler! Treason is treason no matter the cause.”
“So says the scion of one who sold his oath of loyalty to the highest bidder,” Imri said with a sneer.
It felt as if they were back at university, trading insults and accusations until they no longer recalled what the original argument had been about. But though he recognized the absurdity of it all, not to mention the pettiness, Gilmael still struck back as hard as he could.
“At least my family doesn't make a habit of treason,” he growled. “Which is far more than can be said of yours. Do you think your grandsire taking his life mitigated his attempt to slay mine? You Virazes are a treacherous lot and ought never to be trusted with anything of more import than a marketing list!”
When Imri whitened, Gilmael knew he'd crossed a line. He cursed his too quick tongue, a failing he'd mistakenly thought under control.
“Imri—”
Icy gray eyes met his. Imri grimly said, “I’ll tender my resignation today and remove my son and myself from Rikara that you need not fear treachery from the likes of us.”
He turned to enter the office, his frame shaking slightly whether from shock or fury, Gilmael could not tell. But he knew he had to do something before Imri’s son got entangled in their ongoing feud.
“Imri, wait!” he called, grasping the other Deir by the arm. “I’m sorry. What I said was beyond the pale.”
Initially struggling to pull away, Imri stopped and turned a stunned face on him. Gilmael realized he had never actually apologized to Imri in all the time they'd known each other. Not even when he'd been in the wrong.
This was borne out when Imri’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re my superior,” he slowly said. “I shouldn’t have argued with you.”
Gilmael shook his head. “I gave you cause.” It did not sit well to humble himself before a Viraz, but he perforce continued. “Ascribing malice to you when there likely was none.”
Imri’s eyebrows rose in renewed surprise. “What led you to believe I meant ill toward you?” he asked in confusion.
“Your reaction when Mishar said he liked me. It appears I misconstrued it.”
It took a moment for Imri to comprehend what he meant. He looked a little abashed himself. “Perhaps you weren’t so far off the mark. I didn’t know what to make of your kindness to my son given our past dealings.”
“I can’t blame you then,” Gilmael said. “Were I in your shoes, I’d probably be suspicious too. As for Mishar, well, he reminds me of my nephews.”
Imri nodded thoughtfully. “I apologize for thinking the worst of your amity with him before giving you a chance to explain.”
Gilmael wondered if he had stumbled and hit his head. It was the first time they had both attempted to end a quarrel and be civil toward each other. And the first he had backed down and owned himself the instigator of the confrontation. Had the ceiling caved in on them, he would not have been too surprised. But before he could voice his thoughts, the other archivists started to return from their meal break.
“Did you need something?” Imri asked.
Gilmael blinked. “Need something?”
“I doubt you came here just to engage in discussion with me,” Imri quietly said.
With some of the archivists walking past them, curiosity clear on their faces, Gilmael appreciated Imri’s use of a euphemism for their earlier verbal sparring.
“Ah yes. I need information regarding the succession laws of Hamaldi. In particular how the present Herun’s dynasty came to rule when only a few generations ago they were just a cadet line. Do you know anything about the matter?”
Imri’s gaze unfocused slightly as he considered what he knew. “There was no ursurpation of the title. Nor was there a violent deposition of the previous dynasty. Indeed, there are still living descendants of the original ruling family though none remain in Hamaldi. At least, not to my knowledge. But then Hamaldin history is not my strong suit. I’ll collate what I find and send the information to you soonest.” He looked at Gilmael half expectantly. “Is there anything else, Dyhar?”
“Yes, address me by name save when you speak to me in an official capacity.”
Gilmael was as surprised by his own words as Imri. What had possessed him to make the offer? But having done so, he could not withdraw it.
“That is ... generous of you,” Imri murmured. “May I know what merited me the privilege?”
Unable to explain his impulse, Gilmael grasped for the most logical reason. “If not for our families’ fractious history, we could have been friends or been on amicable terms at least.”
Imri appeared uncertain, but eventually he replied, “If that is your wish.” He gestured toward one section of the archives. “I’d best see to your request.”
“That would be most helpful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Imri paused and then smiled slightly and added, “Good day, Gilmael.”
Why the sound of his name spoken just so should please him greatly, Gilmael could not say. But he did not have time to ponder the conundrum and so took his leave.
“Good day, Imri. And give my regards to your son.”
“I will.”
As he walked out of the archives. Gilmael could not recall feeling so light of heart in recent months. Or baffled by the way his emotions fluctuated whenever he encountered his erstwhile foe.