Fall of Angels

LXXVI

“YOUR SON, LORD Sillek.” The midwife turns to Sillek, her face blank with the concealed expression of one who felt Sillek had no rights to be in the room.

Sillek glances from the small figure in the midwife’s arms to Zeldyan’s washed-out and sweat-plastered face, then back to the child and the fuzz upon his scalp that already bears a blond tinge. He smiles broadly at both his son and his consort.

“Have you a name?” asks the midwife.

Sillek ignores the question and bends over the wide bed. His lips brush Zeldyan’s cheek. “I love you.” His fingers squeeze hers for a moment. “Thank you. He’s healthy and wonderful. You are, too.”

“May I?” asks the Lady of Lornth, her arms reaching for the infant as Sillek steps back.

“You?” asks the midwife.

“He’s my son.”

Sillek’s eyes fasten on the midwife until she lowers the boy into Zeldyan’s arms.

Zeldyan eases the seeking mouth into place and smiles faintly. “His name is Nesslek, after his father and grandsire.”

“Nesslek …” muses Sillek. “You had that thought out all along, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Zeldyan’s quick grin fades. “I still feel like a herd of something ran over me.”

“Would you like a wet nurse now?” asks the midwife. “Lady Ellindyja …”

“No. Thank you. Not now.” Zeldyan’s arms tighten ever so slightly around her son.

Sillek watches both, a smile on his lips and in his eyes.