Firstborn

by Michelle West

  Ryan, his raven hair drawn back in a long braid, stood in the frame, his face shadowed by the interior light of rooms that would soon no longer bear his name.

  They could not be said to be friends; they could not be said to be enemies. There was, in their anger and hostility, a type of wary respect. They were not—exactly—rivals, but it occurred to Ellerson, as he met Ryan’s gaze, that were they, Ryan would have been a worthy opponent. He wondered if Ryan saw him in the same light.

  “Have you come to see me off? You are hours and a day too early.”

  Ellerson shook his head, and Ryan stepped back into a room made chaotic by his intent to vacate. Shirts were strewn across each flat surface, as were robes, pants, and two tailored jackets.

  Ellerson grimaced and looked at Ryan; Ryan shrugged. “I’ve never had much in the domicis hall,” he said—and there was something in his voice that Ellerson could not immediately name—“but . . .” he held out an arm to indicate the mess.

  Ellerson entered the room. He was silent; they both were. And then, because Ellerson had no words, having arrived in anger and frazzled desperation, he fell back on very early training. He liberated a hanger from beneath the piles of cloth of one sort or another and lifted the nearest shirt.

  Ryan hesitated again before he joined Ellerson, and they worked side by side, taking comfort from the simple, domestic actions that had been their earliest lessons.

  “Why?” Ellerson was surprised to find that he had chosen to break the almost companionable silence.

  Nor did Ryan pretend to misunderstand. “I am not—I have never been—like you. What I want is simple.”

  “What I want is simple as well.”

  “Is it?”

  Ellerson glanced at Ryan; Ryan continued his fastidious handling of shoes.

  “I have never been as certain as you, as quick to assess. I have never been as practical. No, don’t say it. We’re unlikely to meet again in the near future. We’re unlikely to argue, to clash, to turn lessons into debates—or worse.” He said the last with a wry smile. “I understand my weaknesses. I may not yet understand my strengths—but it’s the weaknesses I’ve spent so long assessing, I know them better than I know how to fold a sheet.

  “You frustrate me, it’s true. You see the world so narrowly. You admit to far fewer possibilities than almost any other student who has chosen to remain in these halls. But there’s a consistency to your views—and your choices—that make the rest of us almost envious.”

  Ellerson said nothing—because he had, of a sudden, nothing to say.

  “I’ve surprised you. At least I’ve managed that before I leave.” He set the shoes down carefully and lifted boots. These boots were less well-tended; they were older.

  “Leave them,” Ellerson said. “They won’t suit the service you’ve chosen.”

  Ryan set the boots aside very slowly. “Do you recognize them?”

  Ellerson frowned. Stopped. Lifted them. He felt something like pain as he looked at the inside of the worn leather and saw his own initials. “Yes.” But he hadn’t until Ryan had asked.

  “You do not approve of Patris Varile. I understand this. Half the student body understands it,” he added, with a grimace.

  “Why?” Ellerson asked again. “Why him?”

  “Because if he is all of the things you have claimed that he is—and I will not lie, you are not wrong—he is still more, besides.”

  “He is—”

  “He is fragile in a way you are not. He is, perhaps, fragile in a way I once was. You see him as lazy and irresponsible.”

  Ellerson nodded. He did not speak.

  “And, in part, he is. Don’t make that face. This is the last time I will be able to discuss him with you or anyone else except the guildmaster.” Ryan glanced at Ellerson, at the boots in Ellerson’s suddenly nerveless fingers. He took them back, folded their heights carefully, and set them beside the shoes and short boots that were suitable. “In part, his irresponsibility comes from fear and uncertainty. Have you met his mother?”

  “No.”

  “His father?”

  “No.”

  “Neither were inclined to part with either their power or their influence—nor are they now. They do not live under the same roof; did they, there would only be one. Varile has long had to balance between the animosities of his parents. He fears to make the wrong decision—and so he often makes none.

  “And yes, Ellerson, it is a weakness. It is, further, a weakness to which he will not admit. Do not think that I have agreed to serve him because I intend to change him—that, at least, would be too much of a disgrace to both of our teachers. I see him as he is. And I see his fear. I believe that were the shadows of that fear less dark and less cold, he would make different choices and different decisions—and I have bet my life on it.”

  “And you would be willing to serve, regardless?”

  “I am. He is not the master for you. You were wise enough to realize it instantly. But you and I are not the same man, Ellerson. We do not have the same desires. We do not have the same talents. Given the past two years, it is odd to say this to you—but I will say it. It is your disappointment that has made this choice so difficult. Not Akalia’s, not the guildmaster’s, but yours.”

  Ellerson closed his eyes. Opened them to see Ryan’s, clear and unblinking. “I did not mean—”

  “No, of course not. My only regret in leaving the guildhall is that I might never see the master you would be willing to devote your life—and not months of your life—to. You’ve always said you have interest in serving men of power—but you don’t trust them. You can’t. You’ve come close, in your time, to being one.

  “And I hope, one day, to see the lord that you’re willing to serve.” He bowed then.

  So you can judge him as harshly? he thought but did not say.

  Ryan shook his head; the air was charged, and the thought was not silent enough.

  • • •

  He did not often think of Ryan. Nor did he think, often, of the guildhall.

  He thought, instead, of Finch, Teller, Jester; of Arann and Angel and Carver. He could not, in good conscience, have remained by Jewel’s side as domicis, and was surprised, still, by the pain that had caused him. But he had known that she was seer-born. He had known that if she was not born to power—and she had not been—she would have no choice but to rise to it. Given her gift, given her almost singular talent, she would not long survive it without some intervention; she required someone with power beyond his own. And he had not, in his own estimation, been wrong. If anything, he had underestimated the dangers she would face.

  The danger, he thought, shivering, that she would become.

  But her den?

  They had come to him.

  He had gone to speak with Akalia, that interview so very, very different from the early ones. She had, as guildmaster, handled their request. She had, as guildmaster, no advice to offer him—he was retired, or should have been; he had become a permanent fixture, a teacher in the domicis halls.

  He had waited, as he could not easily wait in his youth, while she had explained what was desired, what had been requested, and what his responsibilities, should he choose to accept, would be.

  It was—they both knew it—pro forma. She had known what his answer would be before he had even opened her door. But he surprised her on that day, perhaps for the last time. He had bowed—a gesture of respect, yes, but also a gesture of leave-taking, and he had said, in his quiet, unadorned voice—so different from the voice of his younger self—“I am grateful for every hard-fought lesson you have chosen to teach me. I am grateful for the opportunities you provided, and for the patience you managed, however nearly, to show.”

  She said nothing as he rose.

  “Everything you have taught me, deliberately or incidentally, leads to this. This is why I came to the guildhall. This is why I stayed.”

  She understood then. “I do not believe they have asked that you serve
permanently.”

  “No,” he said, smiling. “They have not. But I will serve them until I am incapable of service. There will be no other master.”

  It was her turn to bow, then. “Will you tell them that the terms of the contract have changed?”

  He shook his head. “It is not necessary. Nothing need be said.”

  • • •

  He was far from Terafin. Far from home. Far from the responsibilities that he had chosen to undertake. And he could not undertake them in this winterscape of bitter cold and ancient ruins. His breath hung about him like a pall; the horns passed by. He rose then.

  He did not know by what magic he had found this place; he knew only that some magic might reverse his course. He was Ellerson, domicis; he knew his duty, and he had not yet surrendered it.

  • • •

  How long did it take a man to freeze to death? Less time, Ellerson felt certain, than had passed since he had found himself in the heart of Winter. He was not, and had not been, attired for the bitter cold; his breath hung about him in thin, almost tangible clouds. His hands and his feet ached; his legs were stiff enough that walking caused pain. He walked, regardless.

  He could.

  This meant either that his sense of the passage of time was flawed, or that time did not pass in this place with its single moon the same way it did in Averalaan. He was hungry, but the hunger was a secondary concern. If he did not find shelter of some kind soon, it was not starvation that would kill him.

  • • •

  Thrice more that eve, the horns sounded. The third time, he could see the hunters passing yards ahead of where he cowered. They rode the wind, or so it seemed to Ellerson; perhaps the wind merely followed in their wake. He knew that he was not the target of this hunt, because he knew that were he, he would have died the first time the horns had clashed with the wind’s howl for dominance.

  But he knew, as well, that the hunters were not human. Silvered by moonlight, they carried spears whose heads absorbed light, rather than reflecting it, and their hair, cloaks of platinum that parted as they moved. They were of a height, apparently of a gender, and they did not ride horses.

  They were Lord Celleriant’s people.

  He had always recognized Lord Celleriant as a power—and at that, a dangerous one. But Lord Celleriant served Jewel. He served in a way that the winged cats did not, and probably could not, given their nature. Ellerson had never seen that man in his element—and his element was Winter. Jewel had, and she had not only survived, but triumphed.

  It was daunting, to realize just how far above them she had risen.

  She did not see it herself, of course; it was her nature to cling, to hold, to bind herself. She looked to her den, the heart of the home she had built. It was a struggle for her to look in any other direction. Ellerson had watched it, seen it, recognized it. He had offered her the only help he could: he had taken her den and its affairs in Terafin in hand.

  He wished her to know that they were safe. And he understood that she could not know this because she was seer-born, and it wasn’t true. He had walked into a wardrobe. He had stepped into Winter. He had had no way to return to the Terafin manse.

  Perhaps this odd translocation was due to the nature of The Terafin’s personal chambers; they existed in a space that was joined to the rest of the manse only through the doors that granted entry. Those doors were guarded by Chosen, as was their right and duty—but that duty had become decorative.

  No one that passed through those doors without invitation or permission would find The Terafin. But Ellerson had had both invitation and permission. He had been in the act of performing the duties that had been requested, although technically they were not his.

  He was here.

  He wondered how many of the Household Staff would join him—if they joined him at all. The sky above what the Terafin library had become was an unchanging amethyst; the sky here had passed from perfect azure to midnight, a blue black that was startling in its clarity.

  Were it not for the driving wind and the fear of the Hunt itself, Ellerson would have avoided the ruins; he did not know why the hunters chose, always, a path that bypassed them. He could not imagine they were men subject to fear—but that was irrelevant. They did not seem to feel cold, either; they were certainly untouched by something as trivial as age.

  Anything that roused caution or fear in the Wild Hunt would destroy him. But many, many things that did not would kill him first. Cold. Hunger.

  • • •

  The edges of walls and foundation stones peered above the endless snow, redefining the shape of the drifts. Some were no taller than his ankles—most, in fact. They would not be useful. But farther in, he could see broken walls that stretched to his thigh, to his chest. It was to these that he headed. He was cautious in his footing, and kept his eyes open, but he moved quickly. No trees provided visual cover for him; until he reached that part of the ruins, nothing could provide shelter.

  If he was not the target of the Hunt, he had no doubt that he would draw their interest if they sighted him. Nor had he any doubt what would follow.

  He was surprised to find walls that were taller than he was. Time had had its effect, of course; if the walls remained, what had once been roof had long since decayed. But there were window casements in the longest, whole section of wall he could find; they contained no glass. He could not immediately determine which side of the wall was the interior side—not until he found a corner, and another preserved wall that was sheared at an angle.

  He walked around that second wall and came to an immediate halt.

  There was a woman standing against the stone between those empty windows. She was not tall enough to be a hunter, and she did not gleam the way they did. No, she wore robes. For a moment Ellerson thought she might be Evayne a’Nolan—but that was a delusion of hope. Her robes were not midnight blue, and they did not move and rustle with an apparent will of their own.

  • • •

  “You should not be here,” the stranger said.

  He executed a shallow but entirely proper bow—as if this woman, in her robes beneath the open sky, were the owner of what remained of this building. “My apologies,” he replied, rising. “I did not realize that any of the buildings in these ruins could serve as a home to anyone.”

  The woman lifted her hands slowly, as if to make clear they were empty, before she pulled back the hood of her robe. Ellerson had never seen her before. Had he, he was not certain he would have remembered her; everything about her was nondescript. She was neither too tall nor too short, too heavy or too slender, too old or too young. Her hair was not dark, but it was not light; it fell in that range that was considered mousy.

  But her smile, if brief, was genuine. He was certain nothing else about her—except perhaps the robe—was. “You did not realize it because of course it is not true. No one calls this city home now. Well met, Ellerson of the domicis. Ellerson of Terafin.”

  “I am not ATerafin,” he replied.

  “No, of course you are not. But Terafin has defined your life for years, or rather, it has defined the shape of your life. Were it not for Terafin, you would not be here now. Come. If you approach these empty windows, the air is much less chill.”

  He accepted the instruction as if it were an invitation.

  “You should not be here,” the stranger repeated.

  “I would not be here had I the choice,” Ellerson replied. “Nor will I remain if I can find a passage back. I have responsibilities and duties that are being neglected in my absence.”

  She smiled again. “You do.” The smile faltered. “Understand that I cannot interfere directly. I cannot guide you to a passage that will take you back to your Terafin and the lords you serve.”

  Ellerson was silent for a beat. “Cannot, or will not?”

  “Cannot and would not.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “If I cannot grant you passage back to your world and your time, I can am
eliorate some of the difficulties you now face. I have already done so, of course.” Studying his carefully neutral expression, she added, “Or perhaps I have merely arranged that it be done. These walls stand because of enchantments laid upon them at their building. So, too, the floors.”

  Ellerson found, to his surprise, that the air was distinctly less chill by the windows, as the woman had said. He took care to keep a respectful distance between them. He was not Haval Arwood. His appearance was not a mask or a feint. “You expected to find me today.”

  “Yes, as you’ve surmised.” She gestured to the floor, and he saw that she spoke truth; although it was dusted with snow, the snow was thin. There was no ice beneath it. “There is a door, of sorts. It will open on command.”

  “And it has never been discovered?”

  “It hears only the voice of mortals. No, it has not yet been discovered. You will find clothing, supplies, and food; you will find shelter, of a kind.”

  “The food—”

  “As the walls were, it is enchanted; unlike those walls, the enchantment has never been under siege. There are no treasures contained therein that would justify the use of the magics required to break it. Any who know how to look can see what is contained,” she added. “Or such magics would have been brought to bear.

  “There is history here. Your Empire did not exist when this city fell. Your kind did not exist.”

  He did not ask her how enchantments could be keyed to mortality if mortals did not exist. It was irrelevant, and he felt that the questions he would be allowed were few, the time for them passing as the night darkened.

  “You will not find your way to Terafin on your own. That is not the nature of this most ancient of places. Not all the beings that dwell here are inimical to you and your kind; some will be curious. Some will be fanciful. Some will destroy you not because they desire destruction, but because you are so fragile.”

  She opened her mouth, and horns robbed the air of the sound of her words. Her brow creased as she lifted her chin and turned, briefly, to glance out of the open casement to which she was closest. “Do not fear the Hunt here,” she told him. “What you see of the Hunt is memory, not reality. Those horns have not been sounded in this landscape since—” She fell silent. “Soon, Ellerson. Soon. It will be over, one way or the other.”