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It was a quiet relief to Imriel, to have the whole of Phèdre’s household at the table again. He had expected, perhaps, to accustom himself to the sight once more, but even after a handful of visits, it struck him anew each time. Once he had not thought it so remarkable; later, under the pall of a Carthaginian shadow and the ringing echoes of his own madness, he had been too consumed by other losses to mourn the exile of Phèdre’s servants from her dinner table. And yet, when he had spent the night before his wedding—to Sidonie, at last!—in the city house and found the table full once more, he had been almost overcome.
That had been more than a year before. A year in which Terre d’Ange had begun to heal from the horrors that had befallen it, and strengthened ties with allies new and unexpected, and a tree, once stunted, had grown tall and straight once more.
Over the meal, without fanfare, Imriel and Sidonie made their announcement. There would be an official proclamation soon, of course, but both had agreed that this was right, and the news was received with gladness. After the table was cleared, Phèdre retired to her study with Sidonie to discuss her latest acquisitions and recommendations for magical texts. Imriel might have joined her, but emerged instead into the summer evening, where the golden light of sunset washed over the gardens.
Joscelin emerged not long after. He had a smile for Imriel, though soon his grey eyes slid away to the yard where he trained each morning—where Imriel had trained along with him.
“Did you draw lots again?” Imriel wanted to know.
“No,” said Joscelin, amused. “Since I had to have that conversation with you, it seemed only fair that I get to have this one. We both regret, I think, that neither of us were there with you the last time. Are you happy?”
“Yes,” said Imriel, because it was true; true above all else. “But I was happy then, too. In Alba, with Dorelei. If I felt anything else, I do not remember it now.” If he might have felt anything else then, perhaps it had been locked away by bonds of thread. In the warmth of the fading summer sun, Imriel had no insulation from his discomfort, and it—and the guilt it engendered—darkened his brow. “I knew going into this that there would be children,” he admitted. “I wanted that, perhaps almost as much as I wanted Sidonie. I never thought it would be a hardship. Still, I am … I find myself conflicted.”
Joscelin’s hand settled on his shoulder, and his smile became something more subdued. “Phèdre and I,” he said, “once argued about this.”
Imriel looked at him, startled. “About Sidonie and I’s children?”
“No; about our own.”
“You did? I didn’t realize you’d even discussed such a thing.”
Joscelin laughed, the sound an invitation to join him in private understanding. “We tried very hard not to,” he told Imriel. “We were young. There was much we tried not to discuss, even after she acknowledged me as her consort.” He beckoned Imriel to follow him into the gardens and sit beside him on a bench among the flowers. Turned toward each other so they might speak face-to-face, Joscelin continued. “Both of us were conflicted. There was no small part of me that wanted it, and she may have wanted it for me even more than I ever wanted it for myself.” Joscelin shook his head, a sigh escaping him. There was the first touch of silver at his temples, gleaming in the sunlight.
Imriel found himself able to do little more than look, for a long moment. “Was it your vow that decided the matter?” he asked.
Another shake of his head was Joscelin’s first answer. “Not of itself,” he said. “Yes, it was certainly a concern, and it is the reason we never wed—Phèdre would never ask it of me. And in the end, I could never ask motherhood of her. She was afraid. No one knows what makes an anguisette. But we were young, then, young enough to want to give each other everything, no matter what it cost us.”
Imriel looked at his foster father, and tried to imagine them of an age with one another. It was harder than he’d imagined. In his mind, the image of Joscelin had been fixed for some time: forever the hero of the realm, always the same age he had been when Imriel had first seen him, a golden lion in a blackened hell. Even then—after La Serenissima—his legend would have been made twice over, but there was something reassuring in the reminder that Joscelin, too, had once been young, headstrong in love.
“If she had wanted it for herself the way she had wanted it for me—and wanted it more than she feared it—I think that even my vow could not have stood against it. But she decided not to—never to. She always had a harder time bearing my suffering than her own, and wanted to avoid still more. But then …” Joscelin laughed again, gaze settling once more on Imriel. “But then, of course, there was you.”
Imriel’s own smile was genuine enough, but there was a reticence, too. “I think that is what I struggle with more,” he admitted. “I have made my peace with my nature, and I will not thwart my own happiness simply to spite my mother’s goals. But you and I know better than anyone how impossible it is to keep the people you love safe.”
Joscelin lifted his brows, bowing his head slightly. “That is certainly true,” the Casseline had to admit.
“I could not protect my first child, and he died before he was even born. My mother, for all her power and influence, could not save me from random happenstance and the hunger of dark gods. Even Her Majesty could not stop the wagging tongues at court and shield her daughters from cruel gossip in their youth, or the depredations of a power-hungry sorcerer as a young lady. What if love is not enough?”
Joscelin seemed to consider the question. “I regret only a few things in my life,” he said at length. “I regretted abandoning Phèdre in La Serenissima. I wondered what might have been, if we had been with you in Alba. I feel incredible guilt that I could not believe you, after your fever. We both do, and the meager comfort that we tried to help you in the ways we thought best is sometimes not enough.”
“I don’t need an apology for that,” Imriel said.
“Still,” Joscelin insisted. Then he said, “We love each other more than we fear hurting one another, though that was hard-won, at times. And we love you, too—loved you so much and so soon that even all the wounds of Daršanga could not stop it.”
Imriel’s brow furrowed. “I want this child. And there will be others. I will want them, too. Love them. But what if …” He trailed off, uncertain of what more to say.
“You can prepare for a great deal, and I know you will. There will be times you feel powerless, and times you regret not doing more, or not being able to do more,” Joscelin admitted. “Love is first, and always will be. From it, let spring support and compassion. Your children may suffer, but how different would all of those situations have been if we had not been facing them alone? You have become more resilient than you imagine, and done things I’m not sure I could have accomplished. What more could I ask for my child than that?”
The setting sun was a distant blaze of gold, made hazy by tears. Imriel de la Courcel stood in the sunlight, embraced by his foster father, rooted in nurturing soil.