Firstborn

by Michelle West

  Too much was changing, too quickly.

  Magic had, as Meralonne predicted, become elemental and infinitely more dangerous; it was difficult to control the intensity of summoned power; fires to light simple candles became raging bonfires in an instant—without notably draining the caster. Small accidents had become the norm within the Order’s practice halls.

  Had they occurred only there, Sigurne might have considered the change a boon—but, of course, they had not. She had three missives that had arrived in the hands of royal couriers who were polite enough to “invite” a response. And she had no response to give. The magi who were adept at detection of magic had been put to work, like the least senior of students, to study the change in the flow of, the availability of, magic. Had they not been as concerned as Sigurne, they would have resented the task—but she had made it clear that she could not trust the youngsters—men of a mere four decades—to understand the whole of what they observed.

  Ah, flattery.

  And yet there was truth in it. Which was why it had worked and continued to do so.

  • • •

  When she reached the most secure chambers in her Tower—in the whole of the Order—she was not surprised to find Matteos Corvel. She had not summoned him, of course; she had done nothing to disturb his sleep. She had, in fact, done the opposite.

  He was as hastily dressed as she herself, as grim. His gaze accused her. Had he been alone in the room, he would have accompanied the look with words, and the discussion, while familiar, would burn with the acquired heat and worry of the past few weeks.

  He was not, however, alone.

  A man, dressed in the very fine uniform of personal servant to a rich patris, stood by the long, tall windows through which one could look down into the isle’s streets—or across, to Avantari, the palace which the Kings called home. His gloved hands were loosely clasped behind his back.

  He turned as Sigurne entered the room and executed a bow that implied the difference in their social status. She waited until he rose and offered him the same bow, absent his fluid grace and certainty. She doubted that she could have matched his gesture in her distant youth; she had not been taught the trivial formalities of the complicated hierarchy of Imperial interactions until she had been too old to take to them naturally. Her master, her second master, had disdained them.

  “Andrei.”

  “Guildmaster.” He started to speak and stopped as his gaze fell to her ring. His dark brows rose as obvious surprise transformed his expression for one long breath; he mastered that expression, but the words were slower to follow. “Forgive me for the hour of my arrival.”

  “No apology is necessary,” Sigurne replied. “Will you take refreshments?”

  A glimmer of something—distaste, perhaps—turned the corners of his mouth down. He declined politely.

  “I see,” she said, because she did, “that you have dined in the Order’s halls before.”

  “I have.”

  “Will you partake of a drink?”

  “No. We have the luxury of very, very little time. I am here to deliver a warning, as promised.”

  Matteos had come to stand behind Sigurne and to the left.

  “Is Hectore well?”

  “As well as one would expect. He dislikes the disruption, and he has been in company with Jarven ATerafin far too often of late. Normally, I discourage the connection.”

  “We are grateful that you have not done so. I have watched Jarven play many, many games over the course of decades, and often felt there was not a game he could not, in the end, win. But he is not what he once was. Were he young again—” she shook her head.

  “I would like to know more of your history with Jarven.”

  “There is little of it. I was trained by a demonologist; I learned to note danger, and the dangerous, as my first lesson, and I did not forget.” Her gaze as she met Andrei’s changed. “I did not see you in the same light.”

  “You did not apprehend my nature.” The answer was smooth as glass.

  “I do not believe I understand it now,” she replied. “Oh, I’ve heard the words. But I cannot make sense of them.” He had not even blinked at the mention of the forbidden arts. So. Hectore knew that much.

  “Where is Meralonne APhaniel?” Andrei asked.

  It was not the question she had been expecting, but these days, it was the question she herself feared to ask. She did not answer. She was not young enough to find silence uncomfortable—not when it was of her choosing.

  Andrei’s slight nod acknowledged this. When conversation resumed, he carried it. “I am Hectore of Araven’s personal servant. I am his bodyguard. I am his errand boy. There is very little that one can ignore when one is all of those positions at once—Hectore is not, and has never been, a cautious man by either inclination or nature. He desires the safety of this city, this Empire; he desires the safety of his family.

  “He has elected to forgo their summer retreat, and they remain in the city, under bristling guard. You might know of at least two of those guards,” Andrei added.

  “Ah, yes. He poached among the Second Circle, and I allowed it.”

  Andrei’s brow rose. “Allowed? Given his commentary after your discussion, he considered it a very near-run negotiation. And an expensive one.”

  “Very expensive,” Sigurne agreed. “I would, of course, have let him have them in return for your dedicated services. He was not inclined to agree.”

  “I would not have agreed, had he been so inclined.”

  “I know. It is why I accepted a hefty sum of gold in your place.” In a more serious tone, she added, “I cannot afford to have the magi hired away at this time, as you well know. The price he did pay would be considered staggering for the length of hire and the duties desired. It is not a price that could be matched by many.”

  “And the mages who are under permanent contract to their various Houses?”

  Sigurne chuckled. “And so we come back to Meralonne.”

  He inclined his head. His eyes were a steady shade of brown as he waited, unblinking.

  “I do not know where he is. I know only that he lives in the Terafin manse and makes The Terafin’s personal chambers his home. It is highly unusual; I have quashed the rumors within easy reach, but rumor travels like fire.”

  “Faster.”

  “There is truth to these rumors, of course. I expect you understand that.”

  “I do. I have spent some time in The Terafin’s quarters of late. The wilderness is waking, Sigurne. It is my fear—” He stopped. “We have had no word from The Terafin since the sixteenth of Morel. But it is not of The Terafin that I have come to speak.”

  “You have found the heralds.”

  “It would be difficult to find them before Illaraphaniel does. Of his own herald, there has been no sightings, but it is only a matter of time. Illaraphaniel does not sleep as the Sleepers do. He does not live in their slumber. His herald, if he arrives, is like to arrive through the city gates, just another traveler in Averalaan.”

  She swallowed. “Why have you come?”

  “One of the eldest found me.” He winced. “He is not . . . pleased . . . at my presence in The Terafin’s wilderness, but he acknowledges as truth that she has accepted me and has granted all permissions required for my safe passage. And he understands, as well, that the permissions granted to Illaraphaniel are contingent upon . . . the absence of his herald.”

  “They are helping us?”

  “Are you so surprised?”

  “I am. Things ancient—and sentient—very seldom have the interests of the merely mortal at heart.”

  “They seldom have hearts, yes,” was Andrei’s grave reply. “Two among the denizens of the ancient wilderness led the heralds astray; he is hunting them now, having been distracted from his duties. Such enchantments as they have the power to cast, they have cast; they have led many, many in pointless, forgetful hunts in their time. I have come to tell you that you do not have much time un
til he recalls what his duties are and completes them.”

  “How much time?”

  “According to the elders, a week, Sigurne. Perhaps two.”

  20th day of Morel, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Teller ATerafin lifted his head at the sound of a knock on his door. He did not close the book he was examining; he flipped, instead, to a different page, one of many that were bookmarked. The pages fell flat to either side, and words rearranged themselves—literally—as he watched.

  The door opened; Barston stood in its frame. “Patris Araven,” he said.

  “Please see him in.” Barston nodded but did not leave. “The Chosen?” His tone was pointed, but not yet barbed.

  “Of course. Are the captains available?”

  “By some great coincidence, right-kin, both captains are not only available but present.” This was said with more sarcasm than Barston usually employed where men of note—outsiders—might possibly hear him.

  Teller nodded, his expression grave. “My word, Barston, that I will attempt to conform to a more regular schedule soon.”

  “I would settle for a discussion of the schedule you do keep,” was the secretary’s rather barbed reply. Teller did not blame him.

  He remembered the former right-kin, Gabriel ATerafin, and the right-kin’s interactions with Barston; it was clear as drinking water that Gabriel trusted Barston more than he trusted any other individual within the manse. Teller wanted to do the same.

  And Barston knew that he did not. His dignity was offended; his pride, somewhat injured. But Teller thought it was more than that—and it was the more that troubled him. He had trusted Barston every day of his apprenticeship. He had trusted Barston every day of his tenure as right-kin.

  But in the absence of The Terafin, demons had come to the manse; they had infested members of the House Council. They had hunted and almost murdered one of the younger under-servants. None of these things could be discussed openly with any safety—and all discussions were open.

  He might have escaped the censure in Barston’s gaze if it had only been the captains of the Chosen and Hectore of Araven who had arrived at his door. But Jarven ATerafin had, of course, also arrived.

  Teller had all but begged Finch to keep Jarven in his own office in the Merchant Authority—and he had done so entirely for the sake of his relationship with Barston. Finch had promised only that she would try.

  “No, don’t bother announcing me,” Jarven now told Barston. He lifted his hand to display the prominent and somewhat ostentatious House Council ring. “I’m certain the right-kin knows who I am.”

  Teller considered telling Barston to eject him. He was surprised at the effort it took not to give in to the impulse. Teller was not Jay; he generally liked Jarven. He just liked him at a greater distance.

  Jarven took a chair as Hectore was more correctly ushered into the right-kin’s presence. Andrei accompanied his master and looked about as happy to see Jarven as Teller felt. The captains took their posts by the wall that also contained the door as Jester and Birgide entered the room.

  Only when they were all present did the door close. Teller opened the book beneath his hands to a different page.

  Jester said nothing to antagonize Jarven, which was a good sign, since Jarven consistently failed to be antagonized. He never failed to be amused.

  Today, however, he was alert, his eyes slightly narrowed, his expression sharp. To Teller’s eye, he looked younger, leaner, than he had in years, possibly a decade. Finch considered this a good sign, but Teller wasn’t as certain.

  As it was his office, he opened their theoretically informal meeting. “We have had word from the Order of Knowledge.”

  Jarven said, without preamble, “There have been forty-eight instances of magic running wild within the city proper. There have been over three hundred such instances beyond the city’s walls, such as they are.”

  Jester’s mouth was a narrow line, but he held his tongue.

  Hectore nodded. He was not precisely a friend to Jarven—Jarven did not collect friends—but was, perhaps, as close to a worthy rival as Jarven could have. There was respect between the two men, and the type of wary trust that existed when you knew your opponent so well you knew with certainty where the dangers lay.

  “Work has not yet been completed on the Merchant guildhall—but we have acquired the services of an Artisan and several of the maker-born, and we expect to have a fundamentally safe home within the fortnight. But the caravan routes to the west are also reporting difficulties.” Hectore didn’t ask about the Order of Knowledge’s incident report. Clearly, he had no need.

  “Difficulties?” Jester said quietly, the first time he had chosen to speak. The word was sharp.

  “Some of the merchants have lost guards.”

  “To what?”

  Hectore glanced at Andrei. Technically, Andrei was a servant, and for reasons of his own, preferred to preserve this pretense. He therefore winced and shook his head. Hectore’s gaze grew more pointed.

  And, as always, Andrei surrendered. “The description is literal. They have disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Yes. In one incident, one of the wagons vanished, with everything—and everyone—it contained.”

  “Vanished.” Jester tried for nonchalance. Teller watched as his lips folded into a smile reminiscent of, well, Jarven. He wasn’t Jarven; he failed. The trick to Jarven ATerafin’s ability to control his reaction, in Teller’s opinion, was that Jarven truly didn’t care. It wasn’t, as so many people assumed it must be, an act. Jester, in spite of all attempts to the contrary, did.

  Andrei nodded. “They are not the only losses; there have been deaths.”

  Teller didn’t bother to ask about bandits. Andrei would not consider deaths of that nature relevant to a discussion of this one.

  “The merchants carry gossip from the Free Towns as well,” Hectore continued, in the wake of Andrei’s silence.

  “There have been disappearances there?” Jester now allowed Teller to resume the questioning, and given his expression, he was going to leave it in Teller’s hands.

  “Yes. More. There have been deaths, as well. The Order of Knowledge has dispatched their own investigators, but that is recent, and the situation is unlikely to be resolved by the magi—if indeed the magi come to any resolution at all.” Hectore glanced at Andrei again; the servant was silent. “In our opinion—and by our, I mean Andrei’s—the only mage likely to come up with relevant conclusions would be Meralonne APhaniel.”

  Who was under exclusive contract to House Terafin. House Terafin was in no hurry to return his services to the Order of Knowledge and, therefore, the Crowns. Even if Finch were willing to allow it, Meralonne would not go. Everyone in this room knew it.

  Jarven glanced at Hectore; the look that passed between them heavily implied some prior discussion to which the rest of the room’s occupants—with the exception of Andrei—had not been not privy. “Given the population of Averalaan, the number of unusual disappearances is much lower than we would expect. Our investigators have sifted through reports of people who have gone missing in each of the hundred holdings, and we’ve made educated guesses as to the nature of those disappearances.”

  Teller watched the flow of conversation as it moved, without apparent effort, to encompass Birgide. She was a gardener, a member of the Household Staff whose oversight was given to the Master Gardener and not the Master of the Household Staff. She was also The Terafin’s Warden. Teller didn’t understand how she accomplished the role she had accepted, but he understood her purpose. She was the guardian of the wild and hidden forest that lay in wait behind the Terafin manse. To Birgide was given the task of both guardian and steward.

  “The forest doesn’t exist in its entirety in the grounds at the back of the manse.” This was common knowledge to this small council. “I have attempted to ascertain the physical boundaries of the lands that are claimed by The Te
rafin.”

  “And?” It was Jarven. Something in his voice immediately set Jester on edge. This time, Teller felt uncomfortable as well.

  She met his gaze, tilting her head as she observed him for a few seconds longer than a man in Jarven’s position was accustomed to, given that Birgide was technically a servant. She seemed to be listening to something no one else in the room could hear—and Jarven must have noticed both her concentration and his own ignorance because his eyes narrowed, his lips turning up in a thin, definitive smile.

  “I cannot create a geographical map of the boundaries of the wilderness. I understand them, but the understanding is heartbeat or breath. I could no more explain how breath works to your satisfaction.”

  “But you could explain how to stop it?”

  She didn’t blink; Jester’s skin, the white paleness of natural redheads, flushed. “Yes, if that is the nature of the discussion you wish to have. I do not believe, however, that I know more in that regard than you.”

  “You flatter me,” Jarven replied.

  “Do I?”

  Hectore cleared his throat. “I would appreciate if the rest of this conversation about hypotheticals be held in my absence. I am a busy man.”

  Jarven said nothing. Birgide, however, offered Hectore a shallow bow. “There is no map. I cannot tell you how to navigate the terrain. I am not certain I navigate it, either. I believe I am given permission to traverse the forest.”

  “Have you ever become lost?” Hectore asked.

  This evoked a genuine smile; it was rueful. “I have not been allowed to become lost. Many of the denizens of the forest have ways of making their disapproval of me quite clear, but they have stopped at outright harm.” She shrugged. “There is one map, however, that appears to be relevant: Averalaan’s. I can—with ease—reach both the Terafin manse and the Common from the forest.”

  “And Avantari? Come, come,” Jarven added, at her expression. “We are not fools—or at least I am not. These are the three places where the Ellariannatte currently grow.”