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Qristan birthed that autumn so Gilmael returned to Losshen for his nephews’ naming ceremony. Zykriel and Qristan had asked him to stand as godparent to their sons.
To his relief, they’d decided to keep the celebratory dinner small and intimate pleading exhaustion from personally tending two newborns. They’d made it clear that they would not wholly entrust the rearing of their children to caregivers. Qristan did not care to mimic his sire’s style of childraising. Of course there was a price for their choice to be hands-on parents, but they did not mind paying it in the least.
The infants were identical twins like their sire. They had Zykriel’s brown hair and Qristan’s changeable green eyes. Gilmael grinned as he tickled Jenev’s tiny foot and elicited a toothless chortle. How he hoped Imri would accept his offer. He stroked Jonir’s fine hair and wondered who his future son would resemble. Whereupon he prayed the child would take after Imri and be similar in appearance to Mishar, thereby marking them as brothers.
But however jubilant he was for his brother, Gilmael took care to keep his shields up lest Zykriel discover his proposal to Imri. He was adept at guarding his thoughts and feelings, but of late, due to the turmoil inside him, his control was sometimes tenuous.
“What are you thinking of?” Zykriel asked as he came to his side by the wide crib.
Gilmael checked his shields for any cracks in them. Thank Veres they were not empaths else he would have to clamp down on his feelings as well.
“Why do you believe I’m thinking of something?” he countered. “Am I not allowed to reflect on my beauteous nephews?”
“But are you?” Zykriel shook his head. “You’ve shut me out. That worries me. You only do that when you’re trying to keep something from me.”
“What? I can’t keep secrets now?” Gilmael gibed.
“So you do have a secret.” Zykriel narrowed his eyes. “Judging from your attempts at deflection, it’s one that will displease me, won’t it?”
“Don’t,” Gilmael softly said though his voice was edged with steel. “There are certain matters I prefer to keep to myself. This is one of them. If you love me, you’ll let me keep it a while longer.”
Zykriel’s eyes widened. He gripped Gilmael by a shoulder. “I won’t force you to tell me. But promise me whatever this is won’t hurt you beyond your capacity to heal. Or mine to help you.”
Gilmael smiled faintly. He clapped a hand over Zykriel’s. “I promise.”
He visited King’s Hollow a week later following a Council meeting in Rikara. He came away from the meeting pleased and excited and journeyed north with a heart full of hope.
His joy mounted when Mishar met him at the door with a brilliant smile and a tight hug and soared when Imri welcomed him with a chaste kiss. For a Deir hungry for every sign of returned affection, it was heartwarming.
“You seem in high spirits,” Imri remarked. “I take it you enjoyed standing as godparent to your new nephews.”
“Indeed I did,” Gilmael confirmed. He shifted Mishar in his arms so that the child could snuggle against him. “But that isn’t the only reason for my good cheer.”
“Oh? And what else could be responsible?”
“I bring news of import for your family. But I’d rather announce it during lunch with your sire present.”
Imri’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds intriguing. I think I’ll have lunch served early.”
Gilmael chuckled. “May I be so bold as to assume I may stay for a night or two?”
“If Mishar had his way, you’d stay forever,” Imri replied with a smile. “Come, he spent the morning in the kitchens, helping the cooks prepare those cranapple tartlets you like so much. If you see any irregularly shaped ones, make sure you pick those first.”
“But of course.” Gilmael looked at Mishar’s bashful countenance. “After all, they’ll taste the best, won’t they, poppet?”
Mishar flashed him a toothy grin then tucked his face against Gilmael’s neck to hide his blushing face. “I hope you like them,” he said in a muffled voice.
“I’m sure I will.”
Gilmael dropped a kiss on the tot’s head. He glanced up in time to see Imri regarding him with an expression he could not quite fathom. Was he pleased with his open affection for Mishar?
“By the way, I also have not so pleasant news,” he murmured as he put Mishar down. “Selvin is dead.”
Imri stared at him in surprise. He quickly told Mishar to go ahead and inform his grandparents to expect an early lunch. When the child was out of earshot, he asked, “How? I thought his solicitor managed to gain him an indefinite stay of execution.”
“He managed it by persuading Selvin’s sire to pay off the judge’s gambling debts.”
“The bastards!”
“That isn’t the end of it. Dylen and I suspected underhanded dealings so he decided to investigate. He paid Selvin a visit. He reported that Selvin looked hale and whole for a Deir who’s been incarcerated at the eastside nick for months now. He was in good spirits and even bragged about the special treatment accorded him. Imprisonment had apparently not taught him to hold his tongue.”
“What special treatment?”
“Dylen found out he’d been given a cell all to himself. He was also allowed many privileges forbidden the other prisoners.”
Imri scowled. “Who did they bribe?”
“The warden. It turns out he’s from the same town as the Adharis. The scoundrel emptied a cell for Selvin by squeezing its occupants into other cells. Overly full ones I should add. He kept him separated from the other prisoners, even herding them all into one wing when Selvin wished to eat in the dining hall or bathe in private. And he had the guards escort him whenever he left his cell.”
“How did Dylen discover all this?”
“He’s not Rohyr’s brother for nothing. Neither Selvin nor the warden could hide anything from him. Suffice to say, the solicitor, judge and warden are now awaiting their own trials and can expect stiff sentences.”
“And Selvin? How did he die?”
“The new warden took him out of isolation and rescinded the special treatment formerly granted him. Foolishly enough, Selvin had antagonized a number of inmates by flaunting his privileges and mocking them for their lack of means in comparison to himself. A week in, he was found stuffed in a stairwell.” Gilmael grimaced. “The prison physician said he’d been held down and stomped on by multiple assailants. And ... his tongue had been ripped out.”
“Saints!” Imri shuddered. “He would have suffered less had he taken the long drop.” He motioned to Gilmael to walk with him. “I wouldn’t wish his fate on anyone, yet I can’t say he didn’t deserve it. Nor can I pity him. Nine good Deira died horribly because of him.”
“I feel the same though he was my friend. Shall I leave it to you to tell your parents?”
Imri nodded. “They’ll be shocked, but more than satisfied that justice has been served.”
––––––––
The elder Virazes came to the midday meal in a state of curiosity and some anxiety despite Gilmael’s earlier assurance that his news would do them no harm. He waited until Mishar’s tartlets were served and made a show of selecting a misshapen piece much to the child’s delight. Only after he’d eaten the tartlet and pronounced it the best pastry he’d had in ages did he finally inform them of his royal cousin’s plan.
“Rohyr is going to reinstate the Viarla,” he said without preamble. Exclamations of surprise and some puzzlement greeted his announcement. “He will create his brother Dylen a royal Viarl of the vacant shire of Lyndhon just south of Fenycia.”
Gilmael smiled to himself. Rohyr had wanted his half-brother to be styled a “Royal Highness” for years but Dylen had not felt comfortable being addressed thusly when he held no formal title. Rohyr had difficulty enough convincing him to accept the address of “Your Grace.” Now Dylen would finally gain his well-deserved due.
“In addition, he’ll also create our uncle Yovan Seydon and our cousins Keiran Arthanna, Ashrian Mithani and Jareth Hadrana Viarla of shires that were forfeited to the Crown in the time of Diorn Essendri.”
He did not mention that loyalty to the Crown was greater than at any other time in recent history. This negated the need to limit the number of ruling aristocrats for fear of treason from their ranks. Keosqe and Yovan had reported this at the Council meeting and it was understood the information was to be kept in confidence. So he offered Rohyr’s official reason for rewarding several of his kinsfolk with titles and land.
“Relations with Ylandre’s neighbors are in constant flux and not always for the better. Rohyr wishes to relieve the border Herune of some of the burden of guarding their marches and to help secure the sections of our borders that lie between military outposts.”
“That is well and good, Lord Gilmael,” Hedhral said. “Given those concerns, it’s understandable that the Ardan would confer the title on trusted kin. But why do you deem this development of import to us?”
“Because he will also elevate you thusly, Viraz-dyhar.”
Hedhral stared at him incredulously. His spouse and son were no less disbelieving.
“I beg your pardon?” Alfaer blurted.
“Rohyr didn’t make the decision lightly,” Gilmael said. “I had to convince him first that you were deserving of the title.”
Imri glanced at his parents. “So ... you’re saying he will create Aba a Viarl?”
“Yes.”
“Sweet Veres,” Hedhral muttered. “And all it took was the word of a cousin.”
“Nay, Aba, it took the persuasion of one of his most trusted officials,” Imri corrected. “The Ardan doesn’t strike me as someone with nepotistic leanings.”
“He isn’t,” Gilmael agreed. “I could have talked myself blue in the face and not persuaded him to consider you if he deemed you unworthy. I reminded him of my grandsire’s misdeed and how it led to your family’s latest fall from grace. He was more swayed by my willingness to besmirch my family name than any arguments I put forth in your favor,” he ruefully added. “Rohyr said it took much eating of humble pie for a Calanthe to admit something so unsavory and it could only have been compelled either by great merit on your part or an act of penance on mine. He decided it was both.”
The Virazes stared at him in equal parts amazement and suspicion. He could not blame them for the latter. Were he in their shoes, he’d be distrustful too.
“When?” Alfaer softly asked.
“Next year, likely at the start of summer. I’m pleased to inform you that Rohyr already named the shire entailed to your title.” Before any voiced the question, Gilmael said, “The Ardan has seen fit to bestow Avarin on you. He also granted the extension of the shire’s borders to encompass Delaris. Naturally, the northeastern marches will fall under your jurisdiction.”
Hedhral was rendered speechless for several heartbeats. At length, he slowly said, “Avarin was ruled by another branch of our House. But that line died out following the dissolution of the Viarla.”
“Rohyr thought it meet that a title of your House be given to a Viraz.”
“Verily, I don’t know what to say.”
“A heartfelt ‘Thank you’ will do,” Imri gently pointed out.
“Yes, of course.” Gilmael was subjected anew to Hedhral’s distant gaze. But he thought there was some warmth in the depths of the Deir’s gray eyes. “Mayhap it’s time we lay old grudges to rest. Particularly if your ... friendship with my son continues. My thanks for your intercession on our behalf, Lord Gilmael.”
“It was an honor and a pleasure.”
It truly was both. When Rohyr granted his plea, Gilmael also regained his lover a future among the ruling nobility of the land. And one day, Imri would rank higher than him for a Viarl stood one step above a Herun’s younger son or brother on the social ladder.
Imri must have realized this for he stared at Gilmael in wonder and disbelief. “You didn’t have to do it,” he murmured.
“Nay, I needed to,” Gilmael told him. “I felt it was time one of the wrongs done your family was made right.”
Imri smiled at him then. Soft and admiring and grateful. Gilmael thought it so much better than any eloquent speech or litany of praise.
That night, Imri came to his chamber for the first time.
Before Gilmael could say a word, Imri pulled him into a fierce kiss, kicking the door shut behind him. He maneuvered them both toward the bed scarcely parting their mouths.
Gilmael broke the protracted kiss. “Im, what—”
“I want you,” Imri interrupted, his voice inflamed with more passion than Gilmael had ever heard from him before.
They reached the bed and fell upon it, Imri atop him. Gilmael stared at him, noting a difference, but not quite able to discern what it was.
“I want you, Gil,” Imri repeated.
Gilmael set aside his speculations and set to undoing Imri’s shirt. In a matter of minutes, they were both disrobed and straining against each other in abandon, sharing kisses so incendiary they were soon panting for breath and exchanging caresses that quickly rendered them hard and aching for release.
“How do you want me?” Gilmael gasped as Imri sucked a bruise onto his neck.
Imri trailed kisses up his throat and along his jaw while down below he thrust slickened fingers into Gilmael, preparing him for penetration. “On your knees,” he growled. “I want to bore into you as deep as possible. Make you feel me all of tomorrow.”
Gilmael sucked in a shuddery breath and complied. He swallowed when Imri held him by the hips, keeping him in place as he shifted between his parted legs and pressed against him. He gasped as he was breached, Imri’s shaft spearing him to the hilt. He steadied himself on his elbows and knees, bracing his body for the spate of deep, driving thrusts that swiftly set him on the path to completion.
He clenched his fists, gripping the sheet beneath him, and pushed back against Imri to further heighten their shared pleasure. He smothered a cry when he was cupped and fondled then stroked, each touch accompanied by a deep thrust. All too soon he was on the brink of release.
Warm lips pressed against his nape and the side of his throat then wandered down to the crook of his neck. He hissed when Imri sucked his skin hard enough to leave a mark. That coupled with the steady stroking of his shaft and the continued thrusts into his arse toppled him over the edge. He shuddered with the force of his climax, gasping out his lover’s name. Imri soon followed him into ecstasy, groaning as he spent.
Warmth flooded Gilmael’s innards and he moaned at the sensation. So much had changed that he not only welcomed his body’s breaching, but actively yearned for it.
Yet his uncertainty regarding Imri’s intentions continued. True, Imri had invited him to stay a few days longer, but he’d suspected he would do something of the sort once he learned of Gilmael’s role in securing his sire’s return to the titled aristocracy. He wondered if this was how Imri had felt during their previous affair. If so, it was poetic justice that he now stood in his lover’s shoes. The fear niggled.
What if Imri rejected his proposal? Each and every time they engaged in reproductive intercourse, Imri had him imbibe mirash. Wherefore if he wanted to sire a child on him?
As he pondered his options the following day, Gilmael realized one was not negotiable. By nightfall, he made his decision. Zykriel would question the soundness of his mind for taking so boneheaded a course of action as he would likely call it. Their parents would not be far behind. But it would be worth their ire.
He took the mirash Imri handed him and seated himself by one of the tall windows. As he raised the flute to his lips, he paused and canted his head as if listening.
“I think Mishar is having an unpleasant dream,” he said.
Imri looked at him in surprise. “You can hear his thoughts?”
“Sometimes.” Gilmael shrugged. “I’m not as strong as Rohyr, but I am an Essendri.”
“I’d better check on him then.”
Gilmael nodded. As soon as Imri departed, he tossed the contents of the flute out the window. As he watched the mirash drizzle on the hedge below, he hoped it would not have adverse effects on the plant. He sat down once more and gazed at the empty flute.
Imri would be back as soon as he saw Mishar was peacefully asleep. He would tell his lover that the tot’s agitated thoughts had faded away after he left the suite. Most Ylandrins were aware of the Essendris’ greater share of the mind gifts. Imri would not question his veracity about having sensed Mishar’s dreams.
Distracting him thusly was hardly the best way to rebuild trust between them. But given Imri’s persistence in dosing him with mirash, Gilmael worried his proposal would either be declined or interminably put off thereby preventing him from forging a lasting link with his lover. A link none of the Virazes would be able to deny or destroy least of all Imri.
––––––––
He told no one of his decision. Upon his return to Rikara he sought out a physician who did not know him and used a false name to hide his identity. His joy knew no bounds when the healer confirmed what he’d known as soon as the heat in his womb brought on by the entry of semen flared and stayed, fading away only come morning. At the same time trepidation filled him at the prospect of carrying on by himself until he was too far along for anyone to try and convince him to abort the child.
Not that his parents or Zykriel would suggest something so heinous. But he could not be sure of the Virazes. Who knew if they might find the idea of sharing a child with the Calanthes repugnant? For all Imri’s willingness to bed him, he still had not responded to his offer, either to accept or decline. Gilmael sometimes thought he would prefer any answer, even a refusal, if it would relieve him of the uncertainty that was wearing him down.
He ceased his visits to Delaris when the birthing seam appeared, using the excuse of an overly busy work schedule to keep the Virazes from wondering about his prolonged absence. He still wrote Imri and Mishar, reiterating his hopes for renewed accord between them to the former and showering the latter with affection.
Mishar responded with barely legible letters so full of happiness and childish confidences it made the considerable effort to decipher his scrawl very much worthwhile. Meanwhile, Imri kept his letters brief, but warmer in tone than Gilmael had expected. Indeed, he was surprised Imri had chosen to correspond with him at all.
It would pain him deeply if his lover declined his proposal. But the life growing beneath his heart would provide him much comfort should the worse happen. Even more, he would have hope and the courage to confront a future he might otherwise perforce face alone.