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To say Gilmael was downhearted when he returned to the capital was to seriously understate his pain. He not only missed Mishar, he’d also lost a bit of the hope that had sustained him thus far. Imri’s behavior had been discouraging and he doubted more than ever that he would gain his former lover’s forgiveness, much less regain his regard.
In an attempt to cope, he threw himself into work, sometimes leaving before breakfast and coming home to dinner gone cold. Not that he cared despite his servants’ offers to reheat the food. Everything tasted bland to him so congealed stews and dried out meats made no impression on him. He repeatedly told the butler that the kitchen staff need not restart the cooking fires just for him.
A fortnight after his return, he received a letter from Imri. He dismissed the butler and sat himself before the fire in the gray parlor. Gray to match his mood after an exasperating day at work not least because Selvin sent yet another message pleading with him to speak on his behalf at his upcoming trial. His patience at an end, he’d asked Dylen to instruct the eastside prison warden to restrict Selvin’s correspondence to his family and solicitor.
With a tired sigh, he opened Imri’s letter, noting that it was very short. The contents barely filled a third of the sheet. He caught his breath as he started to read. His eyes smarted under the threat of tears.
Imri had requested that he not come for Mishar’s begetting day. He cited his fear that his son had become too attached to Gilmael and now nursed false hopes of a reconciliation between them. The letter ended with the hope that Gilmael understood his concern.
He stared at the words as crushing disappointment and heartache wiped away all coherent thought. He crumpled the letter and tossed it into the fire. For several minutes he stared into the leaping flames, uncaring of the tears that rolled down his cheeks only to dry up from the heat of the fire.
At length, he rose to his feet and trudged his way to the study down the hall where he raided the liquor cabinet. When he emerged from the room and headed back to his suite, he bore several bottles with him much to the consternation of the scullion who’d come up to see if the fire in his bedchamber needed to be stoked.
The following morning, he sent word to Dylen that he was unwell and would not be coming in and then proceeded to finish off what spirits he had not consumed the previous night. He neither came out to eat nor let anyone in to clean his quarters. And he spoke to no one beyond ordering the butler to “Sod off!” when the latter ventured to knock on his door in the hopes of checking on him.
After three whole days of silence on his part and rampant worry on the staff’s, the butler sent word to Zykriel at the Citadel.
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He arrived at the town house to the frightened pleas of a gaggle of servants to see if Master Gilmael was still alive. Thoroughly alarmed, Zykriel hastened to his twin’s rooms and banged on the door.
“Gil!” he shouted. “Let me in!” When no answer came, he raised his voice further. “Open the door else I’ll break it down!”
A slurred “go away” was his only answer. Whereupon, he summoned the butler and a gawking servant and the three of them proceeded to slam their shoulders against the door.
“What are you doing?” he heard Gilmael shout. “Stop it, Zyk!”
“Then open the damn door, you stupid son of a brainless troll!”
The sound of heavy footsteps alerted him to his brother’s approach followed by the lifting of the sturdy door latch. He stepped back just as the door swung open violently and a bleary-eyed Gilmael glared at him. Zykriel wrinkled his nose at the sour smell that emanated from his twin. He strode into the sitting room which looked fine enough and went on to the bedchamber which was terribly far from fine.
The bedroom was not so much disorderly as stale and rank with spilled liquor, vomit, soiled beddings and unwashed Deir. The windows were shut and the drapes were drawn and judging from the empty fruit bowl and nut dish in the sitting room and the pits, peels and cracked shells scattered amidst the bedsheets and on the floor, Gilmael had evidently subsisted on nothing else for three whole days.
“Oh for—” Zykriel motioned to the butler and servant to enter the apartment. “Prepare his bath. And get this mess cleaned up.” He looked at his unkempt brother in bewilderment. “Saints above, Gil, what’s come over you?”
He noticed then the dullness in Gilmael’s eyes and the dark circles underneath. And were those tear tracks? He gingerly brushed his brother’s mind with his own and recoiled at the anguished thoughts that arose and virtually writhed at his touch.
Loss. Pain. Despair.
The butler signaled to him that the bath was ready. Zykriel took his twin by the arm. “Come, let’s get you washed.” He glanced at the butler. “Fetch him some food. Keep it simple else his stomach won’t hold it down.”
He led Gilmael into the bathing chamber, undressed him and bathed him as gently as if he were a child. By the time he brought Gilmael into his bedchamber wrapped in a thick robe, much of the stink was gone. The servants had thrown open the windows and balcony doors, stripped the bed and swept the floor. They were now busy mopping and wiping down every surface. But an unpleasant scent still lingered. So the butler served the meal he’d hurriedly put together in the sitting room.
Zykriel forced his twin to consume the unsweetened tea, slices of sugar pear and lightly buttered toast with roseberry jam and to drink as much water as he could to rehydrate his body.
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Gilmael obeyed but ate slowly lest his belly be upset. At length, he sat back and briefly shut his eyes, willing not only his stomach to remain calm, but also his nerves.
“What happened?”
He gazed at Zykriel. After a few tense minutes, he drew a deep breath and related everything to his brother.
“He’s so cold and distant now,” he murmured brokenly. “He only ever shows some warmth to me if Mishar is present. Otherwise...” Gilmael clutched at his robe. “I don’t see how I can ever regain his trust, much less his love. That’s obviously gone thanks to my stupidity. And now this.” He closed his eyes again. “Mayhap I should stop bothering him. My visits only seem to make things worse.”
Zykriel did not speak for a while. When he did, it was with a touch of reproval. “So you want to give up, is that what you’re saying? On account of your feelings and none of his?”
Gilmael stared at his twin in surprise. He did not look pleased.
“You’ve really let your pride and fear overtake your good sense. Did you give enough thought to Imri’s situation? Did you ever consider his desires? He allowed you to bed him, for pity’s sake. Despite the antagonism you once shared. And why? Because he obviously thought you were starting to care for him as much as he’d began to care for you.”
“He said as much,” Gilmael admitted. “And then I treated him as if...”
“Precisely.” Zykriel shook his head. “It’s no wonder he’s cautious seeing where his faith in you landed him. Did you really expect him to behave otherwise so soon? And now you talk about giving up. Tell me, do you love him or not?”
Gilmael remembered every tender moment with Imri, every instance of fun and laughter and simple contentment in the Deir’s company. He’d been happy. Happier than he’d ever been.
“I love him,” he whispered. “Much as I denied what I felt.”
“Thank Veres, you’ve finally admitted it.” Zykriel leaned forward and covered Gilmael’s hand with his own. “Look, brother, I don’t mean to be harsh with you. But you can be so stubborn and ... and deliberately obtuse if you don’t want to accept something.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Zykriel squeezed his hand. “Did it occur to you that this may be a test?”
Gilmael squinted at him. “A test? By whom?
“Imri, who else?”
“What? But why?
“Saints, your wits are more addled than I thought.”
Gilmael rubbed his forehead. “You believe he’s testing me?”
Zykriel nodded. “Were I in his shoes, I’d be wary of your intentions and seeking ways to discover what they are. Can you imagine what he’ll think if you give in to his request without so much as a protest?”
“A test.” Gilmael sucked in his breath. “And I almost failed it.” He stared wide-eyed at his brother. “If you hadn’t...” He launched himself across the table to hug Zykriel, heedless of the dishes and barely managing not to upend the cup and tumbler. “You’re right. Why would he believe I love him if I give up on us so easily?”
“It might help if you actually told him you love him.”
“Yes, I should do that.” Gilmael returned to his chair. “I’ve been such a wantwit. Worse than anything you’ve called me. Though...” He stared at his brother pointedly. “I don’t think Aba will appreciate being called a brainless troll.”
Zykriel chuckled. “Don’t ever tell him please.”
After his twin left, Gilmael wrote Imri, informing him that he did not care to break his promise to Mishar and would therefore go to Delaris for his begetting day. After the visit, if Imri truly did not want him to return, he would abide his wishes. He fervently hoped that would not be the case.
He had the letter posted and then, since it was still early in the day, dressed up and headed out. Dylen would be surprised by his sudden return and less than hale appearance. Gilmael would take great pleasure in piquing his curiosity for as long and as much as possible.
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As he walked to Rohyr’s apartment in the Citadel, Zykriel wondered what could be of such import that his cousin required his presence posthaste, yet was so private he would only speak of it in the confines of his quarters. Ordinarily, such meetings were conducted in the small audience chambers with no guards or servants about in order to keep everything discussed confidential.
Josel, Rohyr’s old caregiver and valet and now Lassen’s personal attendant, opened the door and ushered him into the sitting room. He dipped his head to the Ardis before entering the bedchamber. That was another surprise. Only Lassen was present.
He smiled at Zykriel and beckoned him to the small round table upon which Josel had set khavi, savory pasties and jam-filled biscuits.
“Rohyr is finishing a letter that needs be sent forthwith,” Lassen explained while he poured Zykriel a cup. “Have something while we wait. The khavi is freshly brewed and the pasties are very good.”
Zykriel reached for the steaming khavi and stirred in a bit of honey and cream. He sipped the aromatic beverage and grinned in appreciation of the flavor. The rich, slightly bitter drink came from the South Vihandran nation of Asmara. Until the Asmaran Shaja gifted Dylen and his spouse Riodan with khavi beans after a completed mission in the kingdom, the beverage was virtually unknown in Ylandre save among the few members of the diplomatic corps who’d been posted to the south. It had quickly gained popularity within House Essendri and soon became a frequent import from Asmara. It was now a coveted luxury by the moneyed citizens of Ylandre.
“To whom is he writing?” Zykriel asked as he dunked a biscuit in the khavi, another Asmaran tradition.
“Your sire-by-law,” Lassen softly replied.
Zykriel was surprised.
“Why is he writing to the Prime of all people?”
“Because ’tis good manners to reply to a letter even if only to acknowledge that he’s read it.” Lassen leaned back in his chair. “Of course, ’tis not the only reason Rohyr is replying.”
“The Prime wrote about me, didn’t he?” Zykriel frowned. “It’s why I’m the only one Rohyr called to this meeting.”
“Indeed,” Rohyr said as he exited the bedchamber with Josel. “And what Eulan Shidara had to say is most interesting and rather unexpected given what you’ve told us about him.”
The servant took his leave of the Ardan and left the apartment, an envelop marked with the royal seal in hand. Presumably he would take care of having the missive delivered. Rohyr pressed a kiss to Lassen’s forehead before taking his seat.
“You seem to have made quite an impression on all the Shidaras, not just Qristan,” he said without preamble. “Eulan wrote me to reconfirm the compact between Ylandre and the Hegemony.”
Zykriel gaped at him. “Even after everything that’s happened?”
“Even after.” Rohyr accepted a cup from his spouse and took a sip before continuing. “It appears Qristan informed him of his intention to make Losshen his home from hereon.”
“I broached it to him,” Zykriel admitted. “As a condition if he wanted to mend matters between us.”
“It seems he went further. He also renounced his right of succession and his title as Viarl of Dharra and surrendered all his holdings to his sire.”
Zykriel nearly choked on the piece of biscuit he’d bitten off. After coughing up the offending bit, he stared at his cousin incredulously. Rohyr shrugged and continued.
“He didn’t give up his Medavian citizenship nor did he leave the ranks of the Shidaras on the condition that the treaty between our two realms remain intact. Eulan was understandably angered and he didn’t mince words when he informed me thusly. But he admitted to being impressed with his son’s conviction and courage. His words, not mine. He’s therefore reaffirming the alliance between the Hegemony and Ylandre. In perpetuity if children are born of your marriage or the length of your lives should you pass away with no issue.”
All the while Rohyr spoke, Zykriel had listened in speechless disbelief. When his cousin was done, he sat back feeling rather dazed. Qristan had foregone all the rights and privileges of a titled noble and practically beggared himself in one fell swoop.
“Qristan agreed to reside in Losshen. I made it clear I wouldn’t return to Medav. But I didn’t ask the other conditions of him. I never thought to demand that he give up so much for me.” He frowned. “Why in Aisen did he proceed thusly? And without telling me first.”
“As to the second, well, you weren’t there to tell,” Rohyr pointed out. “Gilmael said you made it clear you didn’t want contact with him for now.”
Zykriel looked away, embarrassed that Rohyr and Lassen knew of his troubles. He would give Gilmael a piece of his mind when next they met. And then he recalled that he had just given his twin a piece of his mind. He huffed and looked at the royal couple again.
“As to the first,” Lassen said. “’Tis obvious, isn’t it? He’s trying to make amends to you.”
“But to go so far?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think he’s done enough.”
“What will convince him that he’s done more than enough?”
“Your forgiveness to start with,” Rohyr said. “You already know what he hopes will follow.” He downed the rest of his khavi. “I’m predisposed to think kindly of him given what he’s gained for Ylandre. But I’m not the Deir he loves or hurt so deeply. My feelings about this whole affair will mean little to him. Unlike yours.”
Zykriel grimaced. “I think I was something of a hypocrite toward Gilmael the other day.”
“How so?”
“I told him he’d let his pride and fear overcome his good sense. It appears I can say the same of myself. I owe him an apology.”
Lassen shook his head. “Your situation is different from the imbroglio Gilmael has got himself into. You were hurt and betrayed. ’Tisn’t easy to set such a grievance aside. But if you love Qristan, you’ll find a way.”
“I don’t think I can ever forget what happened,” Zykriel said. “Or his part in it.”
“You don’t have to forget in order to forgive,” Lassen gently pointed out. “Indeed, ’tis almost always a mark of true love when one can forgive even while remembering the hurt done him.”
“You’d do well to listen to such wise words,” Rohyr advised with a grin.
He looked at Lassen with such love and pride, it almost felt like an invasion of privacy to witness their intimacy. Zykriel regarded them with some wistfulness. He’d always yearned for just such a love and hoped he’d find it in his marriage.
But perhaps he might still find it if he gave his marriage another chance. If he gave Qristan a second chance.