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Year 3017 C.A.
Gilmael nervously dismounted in front of the Viraz mansion. He self-consciously ran a hand over his abdomen under cover of his cloak. He’d started to show six weeks ago. Dylen had noticed very quickly though Gilmael had taken care to loosen his belt somewhat so as not to call attention to his widening girth.
His cousin had been shocked, but voiced his support and promised to keep his secret. He also took over meetings and trips so as not to tax Gilmael overmuch and eventually took charge of the Ministry when Gilmael could no longer hide his condition without covering up with a cape. Dylen admonished him however to tell his family rather than have them find out from other sources. And when he made preparations to return to Losshen where he would wait out the remaining time before he birthed, Dylen advised him not to travel by translocation.
“It can precipitate a premature birthing,” he explained. “Our physician was very adamant about that when Riodan asked if he could travel thusly in his last month.”
So Gilmael journeyed to Losshen the conventional way, riding in one of the family coaches and puzzling the driver, his valet and escort of four when he did not conjure a translocation corridor. But they were well trained and kept their thoughts to themselves for the four days it took to reach Syvonna. His parents and brother were not so reticent.
“The sentries reported that you didn’t arrive by portal,” Zykriel said as soon as they greeted each other in the front hall. “Why is that?”
Gilmael glanced at their visibly curious parents. Instead of answering at once, he motioned to them to follow him up to his suite. Once inside and the servants had departed he shed his cloak. The others gaped at him in shock.
“Holy saints!” Zykriel exclaimed. “Who’s the sire?” A moment later, he gasped. “Imri?”
“Yes. And before you start thinking the worst, he didn’t force this on me,” Gilmael said. “I offered to give him a child to replace the one I caused him to lose.”
He ignored his parents’ spluttering responses and recounted everything that had passed since he visited King’s Hollow for Mishar’s begetting day celebration. Afterward, they fell silent, probably too befuddled to speak, while Zykriel threw his hands up in exasperation.
“When I suggested that you prove your love to him, I didn’t mean for you to offer to carry his child!”
Gilmael smiled slightly. “This was wholly my idea. And I’ll have you know I’m more than pleased to have this child. Joyful is closer to the mark.”
Ildris made choking sounds. “Did he ensorcell you somehow? That doesn’t sound the least like the Gilmael I know!”
“Ama! What a thing to say!”
“You cannot blame him for thinking thusly, Gil-min,” Desriq pointed out. “You’ve said many a time that you couldn’t picture yourself with children, much less carry them yourself.”
Gilmael shrugged. “Am I not allowed to change?” He sighed. “I didn’t mean to fall in love least of all with him. But I did learn to love him and I intend to have something of him if I cannot have him.”
Ildris caught his breath at the heartfelt confession. “Oh my son,” he whispered and pulled him into his arms.
Gilmael hugged his father back. “It will be all right, Ama.”
That was eleven days ago. He was expecting to birth in a fortnight. And so he’d deemed it time to let Imri know that he’d sired a second son. Now when there was no longer a chance of safely aborting the babe.
He’d travelled two thirds of the way to Delaris with an escort. But not wishing to alert the Virazes to the change in his circumstances, he sent the soldiers back and rode on alone. He managed to conceal his rounded belly from everyone, even the sharp-eyed estate sentries, by keeping his cloak on all the way to his bedchamber. The only one who might have noticed was Mishar whom he swept into his arms upon his arrival. But the child was too young to comprehend its significance and so did not know enough to wonder about it.
Now he stood in front of the mirror in his room staring at his reflection critically. Imri had advised him that his parents were hosting a formal dinner that evening to celebrate Hedhral’s reinstatement as a titled blueblood. He’d brought court attire with him, his emerald earring and a gold arm cuff. He’d also arranged his midnight blue mantle assymetrically and pinned it at his right shoulder with a ley-silver heirloom clasp. Draped thusly the fine fabric covered most of his left side from shoulder to knee and obscured his stomach. Only if one looked closely would one discern what the mantle concealed. Gilmael was fairly certain nobody would think to do so.
Nevertheless, he was uncomfortably aware of the stares cast his way when he entered the capacious dining room. The Virazes’ guests were friends and allies who had not forsaken them when their fortunes took a downturn, as well as what distant kin still remained after the cadet line had died out. The appearance of a Calanthe probably took them aback though they were mannerful enough not to talk about him within hearing.
But it was not the wary attention that troubled him. Rather it was Imri’s seeming lack of warmth even as he tended to Gilmael throughout the evening. He hoped it was only because there were others about.
A few Deira approached him afterward when they all retired to the grand drawing room for music, drinks and conversation. But the majority kept their distance, obviously uncertain about his relationship with the Virazes. Imri kept him company intermittently, but he had to mingle and thus Gilmael would oft be left to his own devices.
“I must speak with the Orezis,” he told Gilmael before he left his side for the fourth time in less than an hour.
Hedhral soon took his son’s place, sitting down beside Gilmael with a sigh of relief.
“Are you well, Dyhar?” he asked, noting the elder Viraz’s pinched expression
Hedhral nodded. “It’s only my old bones making it difficult to stand in one place for too long. I’d much rather move around, but our guests prefer to stay put when conversing with me.”
Gilmael looked at him thoughtfully. “My cousin Eiren concocted a most efficacious liniment for such pains. I’ll arrange to send you a goodly supply.”
“My thanks, Lord Gilmael. That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s but repayment for your hospitality all the times I’ve visited. You didn’t have to tend to me yet you always did.”
Hedhral shrugged, a small smile hovering on his lips. “Mishar would have taken me to task if I didn’t. There’s naught more terrifying than a toddler in a pother. Imri bore through at least one scolding when he failed to do his duty your first visits here. Let me say it isn’t a pretty sight to watch a grown Deir being dressed down by a mite of only yea size.”
Gilmael gazed at the noble in some surprise. Hedhral must have imbibed enough to loosen his tongue. Never had he spoken so many words to him before. He chuckled though when Hedhral lowered his hand to indicate Mishar’s height in comparison to his sire.
A part of him cheered the tot’s spirited reaction to any perceived mistreatment of him. The other part was less certain if it was something to be happy about. He could not help wondering if Imri’s kindness during his later visits was to avoid another undignified upbraiding. His gaze strayed to his lover as he moved among the guests.
“I’m glad these friends didn’t abandon you,” he ventured. “I can see how pleased they are about your turn of fortunes.”
“Yes, these few remained loyal and I shall see them rewarded for it. But even they were leery of marrying into the family. Well, most of them. But now, Imri is a desirable match once more. As soon as word of my elevation got out, no less than a dozen proposals came our way.” Hedhral huffed in indignation. “Of course we took great pleasure in turning down those who treated us like outcasts and now have the gall to broach alliance with the family just because we’re back in favor! As my spouse likes to say, the nerve of them.”
Gilmael’s stomach flip flopped. He had not considered the possibility of Imri receiving offers of marriage.
“Did you decline them all?” he carefully asked.
“Not all. Well, not outright.” Hedhral made a vague gesture toward Imri who’d been waylaid by a couple as he crossed the room. “My son and I are agreed it isn’t politic to do so. I am not yet a Viarl after all. Speaking of which, I rather look forward to visiting Rikara again after all these years and being elevated by Rohyr himself. Not that Imri cares to wait for that before announcing his choice.”
“His choice?” Gilmael did not know why but a sense of dread came over him.
“That’s the other reason for this dinner. He intends to propose tonight.” Hedhral did not notice Gilmael’s shock. “What time is it? Ah, he will do it soon.” He smiled fondly at Imri who was presently conversing with two bluebloods whose very comely son gazed at him with utmost adoration. “He chose wisely, you know, though I doubted his wisdom at first. I should have trusted him from the start.”
“Trusted him?”
“To use his head as much as his heart.”
Gilmael swallowed hard. The young Deir had laid a hand on Imri’s arm and was speaking to him animatedly. Imri softly smiled at the youth and covered his hand with his own. Gilmael’s stomach churned and he lurched to his feet. Hedhral looked up at him in some concern.
“Lord Gilmael?”
“I must go. I—” He looked at Imri again and saw him slide an arm around his companion’s waist. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He ignored Hedhral’s calls as he strode out of the drawing room as swiftly as possible. He headed out to the stables and demanded his steed be saddled at once. The other grooms stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Attired as he was for a party rather than a ride, that was not unexpected. But he did not care what they thought of him.
He rode out of the stables, down the drive and through the city at a gallop. As soon as he was out on the plain before Delaris, he generated a portal.
All warnings not to travel by translocation were forgotten. Gilmael only wanted to go home. To return to the comfort and security of Calanthe House. To surround himself with family and let their love balm the pain of shattered hope and a pining heart.
––––––––
He realized his folly when he arrived at Calanthe House. Hardly had he entered the manor when he felt a cramping pain low in his belly. He half bent and clutched his stomach, willing the pain to go away.
“Gil! What in Aisen!”
He looked up to see Qristan hurrying toward him, his expression one of alarm.
“Hurts,” he gasped as his law-brother slipped an arm around him. “Was it like this for you?”
“Do you mean you’re in labor?” Qristan shook his head. “How can that be? You’re not due until a fortnight from now.”
“I translocated here,” Gilmael admitted in embarrassment.
“You what? Sweet Veres!” Qristan motioned to a servant to support Gilmael on the other side. “Let’s get you to your room.” He addressed another servant. “Summon their Graces and Lord Zykriel. And you,” he spoke to a third retainer. “Fetch the healer posthaste!”
The trip up the stairs and to his apartment seemed to take forever. Gilmael groaned in relief when Qristan laid him down on his bed. The pain had not yet worsened, but neither did it abate. He curled up, clutching at the beddings as another contraction wracked his belly.
Pandemonium broke out when his parents and brother entered the chamber, eyes wide and faces pale. Ildris all but exploded when Qristan explained the cause of his premature labor.
He scowled at his son. “What possessed you to do such an idiotic thing?”
Gilmael gritted his teeth. “”I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“Obviously!”
Ildris tore open his tunic and shirt and stared at the birthing seam. It had not yet thinned as was normal for a Deir who’d brought a babe to term.
“I don’t think the seam is ready,” he muttered. “It’s just too soon. Veres almighty, what’s taking Barion so long?”
After what felt like an interminable while, an elderly Deir hurried into the room. He was the same physician who delivered the Calanthe twins and Zykriel’s sons. Barion took the Heris’s place at Gilmael’s bedside and quickly examined him.
“It’s definitely premature,” he said as he palpated his abdomen and listened for the babe’s heartbeat. “I will have to help the seam along.”
“You mean to cut him open?” Desriq looked horrified.
“Only as a last resort. It will have to be done if the seam refuses to part. But I think this one will open though it will be very painful as it hasn’t sufficiently thinned. I will give you a draught to ease some of the discomfort,” the healer told Gilmael. “But I cannot put you to sleep for I’ll need you conscious and able to push the infant out. Do you understand?”
Gilmael nodded. “I’ve experienced worse.”
“Nay, you haven’t,” Ildris said. “Nothing compares with a birthing and especially a birthing gone wrong!”
“You’re not helping, Ama,” Zykriel admonished his father. “Master Barion will see him through this safely. Let’s stay out of his way. Come, sit down. You too, Aba.”
He managed to calm the elder Calanthes somewhat while Barion explained to Qristan that he needed to have his surgical instruments cleaned in boiling water. Qristan nodded and hurried away with the instruments. He returned several minutes later, wide-eyed and nervously waving his hand at something behind him.
Just as Zykriel opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, a tall Deir burst into the room, his clothes in disarray and his moonspun hair windblown. He looked thunderous.
Imri took in the scene, his eyes widening as he comprehended the situation. He stalked to the bed and glared down at Gilmael.
“Is there something you should have told me?”
Gilmael tried to answer only for a contraction to wrench a groan from him. Barion urged him to drink the draught he’d poured for him. He obeyed and almost spat out the first mouthful.
“Are you sure this isn’t poison?” he wheezed after he forced it down his gullet. “Can’t you just think the pain away?”
Barion scowled and pointedly focused his mind on the seam. Abashed, Gilmael muttered an apology. He’d spoken out of turn. The healer needed to conserve his mind’s energy and concentrate it on the more draining procedure of getting the seam to open up naturally.
Contrary to popular belief, even prodigiously gifted physicians like Eiren Sarvan did not possess bottomless reserves of healing energy. It also took much inborn skill to harness that energy to perform two or more procedures at the same time or in close succession. Furthermore, few natural healers were blessed with full palliative capability. The majority relied as much on the apothecaries for pain relief concoctions as their more numerous brethren of little to no innate healing abilities.
At length, Barion straightened looking tired but pleased. “Hopefully it will be enough,” he murmured, running his fingers along the seam. “But if it still doesn’t part in the next ten minutes, I’ll have to operate.”
He moved off to join Desriq and Ildris, partly to soothe them and partly to give Gilmael and the apparent sire of his child a modicum of privacy.
Zykriel had joined Imri to explain the circumstances to him. Imri looked from him to Gilmael as he spoke, his expression a mixture of incredulity and anger.
When Zykriel was done, Imri rounded on Gilmael and asked, “Why did you leave?”
Gilmael shook his head. It was hard to think clearly when he hurt so much. Thankfully the draught started to take effect and he found he could speak somewhat coherently.
“Your sire told me you were going to propose to your intended. I didn’t want to watch you betroth yourself to another.”
One moment, Imri gaped at him. In the next, he treated Gilmael to a frightful glower.
“You idiot! I would have made a fool of myself had Aba not stopped me from announcing my intention to propose to you. How do you think I felt to learn you’d left without so much as a by-your-leave?”
“You were going to propose?” Gilmael confusedly said. “But we never reached an agreement of any kind.”
Imri looked taken aback. “I didn’t think a formal agreement was necessary. I mean what was my fucking you without cease other than my acceptance of your offer?” When Gilmael stared at him in shock, he added, “I forgave you a while back and I was going to tell you tonight as my gift to you. But I wanted to make a surprise of it. Confound it, Gil! You didn’t even tell me you were with child!”
“But you didn’t want— You always made me take mirash.”
“Of course I did. I wanted you to myself for a long while yet. Besides, why would you want a bastard over a legitimately born son?”
“Holy saints! Are you asking me to bind to you?”
“Have you misplaced your wits? Didn’t I just say I was going to propose to you?”
“But that Deir...” Gilmael grimaced at the memory. “You seemed so close to him. You smiled at him. Even put your arm around him. I thought ... he was the one.”
Imri started, realization dawning in his eyes. He knelt and took Gilmael’s hand and kissed the knuckles.
“Sidhre has been infatuated with me for as long as I can remember,” he said more gently. “But I don’t return the attraction. If I showed him fondness, it’s only because I felt I should be kind to him. His folk were among those who didn’t turn their backs on us. Had he not been a mere child, they would have allowed him to wed me had I made an offer.”
“Did you ever consider it?” Gilmael asked, hurt and uncertainty tingeing his voice. “You could have betrothed yourself to him and and then waited until he was old enough.”
Imri shook his head vehemently. “I have no interest in romancing children and even less the patience to wait for one to grow up.” When Gilmael whimpered as the pain grew once more, he pressed a kiss to his forehead. “There’s no cause to be jealous. I married Medril as much to gain a trusted ally as a mate. But you I would wed for love. If you want to.”
Gilmael caught his breath at the repeated proposal. “Yes! Yes, I want to.”
Imri’s eyes sparkled. He glanced over his shoulder at the Calanthes. “Can we have a priest come, my lords? I don’t want our son born out of wedlock.”
Barion had returned to check the birthing seam. He shook his head at the request. “He will not arrive on time.”
“But I’m here. And I’m authorized to bind you in handfasting rites,” Desriq informed them as he came to Imri’s side.
“You are?” Gilmael and Imri both said in surprise.
“It’s not a widely known function of the title. It’s still preferable that a magistrate conduct the ceremony. But when none is available, a Herun may take over. Needless to say, the child will be legitimate. And of course, you’ll have the option to dissolve this union afterward if you wish,” Desriq added reluctantly.
“I have no intention of dissolving this union, Your Grace,” Imri said. “If Gil agrees, I want our marriage blessed in fane rites when he’s fully recovered.”
Gilmael opened his mouth to speak, but ended up gasping in pain. Whereupon Desriq had Zykriel and Qristan stand as witnesses while he hurriedly conducted the rite. Gilmael managed to make the proper replies despite the escalating pain. All the while he gripped Imri’s hand so hard, he feared he might break his lover’s fingers. Just as his sire proclaimed them handfast mates, a pain sharper than all the others racked him and he cried out.
Barion examined his belly. “If you would all retire to the sitting room please? Save for...” He glanced at Imri questioningly. “Dyhar?”
Imri nodded and got to his feet.
“Qris too,” Gilmael insisted whereupon his law-brother returned to his bedside.
“You’ve done this,” Gilmael said through gritted teeth. “And Zykriel told me Ama panicked when you birthed.”
Qristan smiled faintly then looked at the physician. “How can we help, Master Barion?”
Following the healer’s directions, he and Imri eased a clean sheet under Gilmael to keep blood and birthing fluids from making a mess of the bed. Hardly had he settled back on the mattress when Gilmael cursed under his breath as several contractions hit him one after the other.
“Damn it all!” he growled. “Will it take much longer?” He scowled when Imri and the physician exchanged rueful smiles. “Let’s see how funny you’ll find it when it’s your turn to whelp! Ah! Deity’s blood, that hurt!”
Barion patted his hand. “The seam is starting to part, is why. Thank Veres I won’t have to cut the child out of you.”
It took longer than usual for the seam to open up completely. By then Gilmael had called Imri a number of highly uncomplimentary names in spite of Qristan’s attempts to soothe him. He tried to hold back his tears and stifle his sobs, reminding himself of wounds suffered in battle that caused pain to rival what he now endured. But when the seam split open, it proved too much and he howled repeatedly though he still managed a number of snarled imprecations that would have burned a foul-mouthed warrior’s ears off. He gripped Imri and Qristan’s hands hard enough to bruise through one last contraction.
At last, his abdominal muscles pushed the infant down and out the seam. Through the haze of pain he heard a high-pitched wail and Imri’s joyful “Veres be praised!”
He winced when Barion brought the edges of the seam together to encourage it to start healing. The pain diminished considerably and he sighed with relief. The healer cleansed the wound, smeared it with a medicinal paste and then bound his torso with soft cloth bandages to protect the seam from infection. The soiled sheet under him was gently removed and Qristan wiped his sweaty face with a towel while Imri fetched a fresh blanket and gingerly laid it on him.
All the while he drifted in and out of full consciousness. He heard Qristan whisper, “Felicitations, Gil. You did well.” Eventually he became aware of Imri above him, cradling a bundle in his hands.
“He must remain abed for at least a sennight,” Barion instructed. “Permit him only visits to the chamber pot, nothing more strenuous. The seam should close completely within the day. If not, summon me at once. You may call the others in when he feels up to it.”
Gilmael watched Qristan and the healer leave the room then turned his head when Imri perched on the edge of the bed. He stared at the bundle his spouse lowered for him to see.
He gazed in awe at his son. Cradled in the center of its natal shell, the infant was little more than the size of his hand. But he was fully formed and if the insistent flailing of his limbs was any indication, strong and lively. Best of all, the babe had Imri’s white silver hair and very fair skin.
Both infant and shell had obviously been given their first wash for neither bore smears of blood and birthing fluid. Gilmael curiously touched the shell. It was about twice the circumference of Imri’s cupped hands. A dark beige half oval, its opaque surface faintly streaked with bluish veins, it would provide the babe with sustenance for its first few weeks of life.
The birth cord trailed from the child’s belly to disappear into the folds of the shell surface. A pale rose in color, it would be the means by which nourishment would be delivered to the infant for a fortnight. By then, the desiccated shell and cord would naturally detach and the child would then take suck from Gilmael—a rich milk-like substance called estra.
The infant half opened his eyes, allowing them a glimpse of bright blue irises. Gilmael grinned with delight. There would be no mistaking this child and Mishar as other than brothers.
“He’s beautiful,” he murmured, smoothing his hand gently down the babe’s torso.
“Very beautiful,” Imri agreed. “Just like his father.”
Gilmael snorted, but he did not gainsay the compliment. “Im? Please ask the others to come in.”
“You should rest.”
“I’ll rest afterward, I promise.”
Needless to say, there was much jousting for a good view of the infant when the Calanthes reentered the bedchamber. Desriq could barely contain himself as he regarded his third grandchild while Ildris did not bother to stem his tears. Zykriel and Qristan grinned in some amusement having already experienced the Herun and Heris’s reactions at the births of their twins.
“What will you name him?” Zykriel asked.
Imri stroked his son’s downy cheek. “Since you carried him, you should have the honor,” he told Gilmael.
“Are you sure?”
“I already had the pleasure of naming a son. It’s your turn.”
Gilmael fell silent for a spell. His firstborn child was the bridge between himself and his spouse and stepson, the one member of the family they would all have in common by blood.
“I want to call him Adrial.”
Imri’s eyes widened. And then he beamed. “The angel of unity. A most fitting name.”
“Adrial Viraz thar Essendri,” Desriq intoned.
Imri stared at him startled. Clearly he had not expected his younger son would be deemed a scion of the Royal House.
The Herun looked inquiringly at him. “Would you like Mishar to come here?”
“Yes, indeed, Dyhar. He should meet his brother soonest.”
Zykriel said, “I’ll fetch him.” He glanced at Gilmael and chuckled. “I doubt Gil will let you leave his side for long.”
They finally left the bedchamber, allowing the little family time to themselves.
Imri half reclined beside Gilmael and laid a finger on the palm of their son’s tiny hand. Gilmael smiled as Adrial curled his hand around the finger. He glanced at Imri’s face and was taken aback to find his mate looking quite unhappy.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Imri whispered.
“For what?”
“For leaving you uncertain about my intentions. It was stupid of me not to expect you to take my actions amiss.” Imri looked away, shame visible on his face. “And I spoke to you so harshly when you were in no condition to defend yourself. Heyas, I shouted at you.” He swallowed. “Treated you as if you were a dunce when you were simply in too much pain to fully understand what I was saying.”
“Im...”
“You couldn’t even tell me you were with child because you didn’t know if I would welcome it. What does that say about me?”
Gilmael stared at the ceiling. “I was afraid,” he softly admitted. “I hoped you were giving me another chance, but ... I also feared you were paying me back in kind.” He turned his gaze back to his spouse. “I thought perhaps you no longer loved me. That you only pitied me. It’s a feeling I’m not familiar with.”
Imri looked stricken. “Saints above, I was so thoughtless. I didn’t consider what my reticence was doing to you. What it was making you think. It’s just ... I was wary of revealing my heart as I did before. It was ridiculous of me and craven given what you’d already offered.” He gripped Gilmael’s hand tightly. “I pray you’ll forgive me my unkindness toward you.”
“Seeing as we’re wed, it wouldn’t make much sense to hold a grudge, would it?”
“But I don’t want forgiveness for duty’s sake.” Imri looked at their joined hands. “I’ll accept yours only if you truly give it.”
Gilmael huffed a chuckle. “We make quite the pair, don’t we? I suppose we’d best learn to communicate lest we keep hurting each other with misperceptions and unfounded suspicions.” He pulled Imri’s hand to his lips. “I forgive you because I love you. And I would very much like us to start with a clean slate. Well, as clean a slate as is possible with two children between us.”
Imri’s gaze turned soft and reverent. “You always speak of Mishar as if he’s your own.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he is my own.”
“Yes, from the start, you always treated him with such affection.” Imri kissed him gently. “I think that’s when I started to fall in love with you,” he murmured against Gilmael’s lips.
Little Adrial yawned while his parents’ kiss turned a touch more heated.
––––––––
Zykriel set out for Delaris the following morning and returned with Mishar by midday. He handed the tot to Imri who informed him that he now had a stepfather as he carried his son to Gilmael’s apartment. He set Mishar down at the threshold of the bedchamber. When the child spotted Gilmael on the bed, his eyes lit up and a wide smile curved his lips.
“Lord Gil!” he cried as he hurried over. “Lord Zykriel said I have a brother!”
“Indeed you do, dear heart.” Gilmael shifted to make space for him and then showed him the sleeping infant.
Mishar gawked at the babe in amazement. “He looks like me. And you birthed him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re his ama?”
“I suppose I am,” Gilmael said with a grin.
“Aba says you’re wed now. Does that make you my ama too?”
Gilmael glanced at Imri. “If your aba wishes it.”
Imri gazed at him uncertainly. “Do you?”
“Do I?” Gilmael considered it. “Truth be told, I never imagined being addressed thusly. But strangely, I don’t mind.” He pulled Imri down to brush their lips together. “Indeed, I like the sound of it.”
“Even if I birth our next child?”
“So, you want more children with me?”
“Of course I do.”
“It’s your surname our children will carry,” Gilmael pointed out. “It’s only logical that you be aba to them and I their ama regardless of who births them.”
Imri’s face lighted up with a brilliant smile. He hugged Gilmael and murmured “Thank you, ariad.”
Mishar squealed in delight at the endearment. “Ooh, ooh! That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you call anyone beloved, Aba!”
Gilmael regarded his mate curiously. “Is that so?”
Imri caressed his cheek tenderly. “I haven’t loved anyone as I love you.”
Warmth and great cheer welled up in Gilmael’s breast. His fondest dream was fulfilled here in the Deir he’d taken to spouse and the son he loved as much as the first child born of his loins. All that was needed to complete his contentment was for their union to be hallowed in fane rites. He could hardly wait.