Firstborn

by Michelle West

  Jarven frowned.

  “But no, in the end. I am not what they are. I have not proven myself in his eyes.”

  “And will you?”

  Finch closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t know how to answer the question, but she was familiar with it; she had asked it of herself for weeks now, months now. A dozen answers came and went, but she was aware that if Jarven hadn’t heard the fox’s question, he would hear her answer. She straightened her spine, stiffened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and looked across a desk at the man who had been so central to her for half her life. “Yes.”

  Jarven’s lips quirked in a very unusual smile.

  “You wish me not to interfere,” the fox said.

  “Did I say that?”

  “Yes.”

  Finch frowned.

  “You said ‘yes,’ Finch. Jewel is fond of you. You are sister to her, and in the old world, that is no small thing.”

  Ah. “And if you interfere, my answer must be no?”

  “Will it damage you greatly if that is the outcome? Would Jewel be unhappy?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “She has a very light touch.”

  “Why are you asking?” she asked gently.

  The fox grinned. “I want him.”

  “But we need him.”

  “Yes, exactly.” The fox turned to study Jarven, who was now studying Finch as if she had just presented a perplexing problem. It was not yet his contract negotiation face, but it was cool, distant, appraising. It had none of either his usual warmth or his usual frustration—and even if she knew that both were pretense and could be pulled on or put off like clothing, she preferred them. They were what she knew.

  “I want him,” the fox repeated.

  “Why?”

  “Because he is the first one I’ve seen—the only one—who might serve our purposes. Look at him, Finch. Look at him. He is old, and age enfeebles the lesser races, but he struggles against it. He burns. How long do you think he will last?” The last comment was made in a conversational tone, as if he were discussing the blooms in a garden hothouse.

  She had asked that herself, but never of Jarven. Never of Lucille. “How long,” she asked, “could you give him?”

  Jarven’s eyes were bright, sharp; his body tense. He couldn’t see or hear the fox. He could, however, see and hear Finch. And he knew her so well; in some ways, he knew her better than she knew herself, observing all of the small gestures, the small reactions that were so innate to her she wasn’t aware of them.

  He had made her aware of most of them.

  “We cannot make him invulnerable,” the fox said. “Nor impervious to harm. He is not, by nature, a cautious man.”

  “I would not, of course, ask that—and neither would he if he could hear you. What would it cost?”

  The fox chuckled, voice low, the sound almost more felt than heard. “That is not a matter for you to discuss. It would not be you who would pay the price.”

  “I don’t think you understand what my duties here are.”

  “No. But it is irrelevant. I understand our Lord. You cannot barter for him, and you cannot pay in his stead. That would imply that you own him, that he is truly yours. And that is not the case with mortals, or not the ones who serve our Lord.”

  “Nonetheless,” she said gravely, “I will know. You cannot speak to him here, not yet. But you could speak to him in the forest.”

  The fox nodded.

  “Jester will not bring him. But if you satisfy me, I will.”

  Jarven opened his mouth. Finch lifted her head, met his gaze, held it. Whatever he saw in her face caused a flicker of smile, no more. He fell silent, observing. Observing her.

  “And if we do not, little mortal?”

  “I will not deliver him.”

  “You understand that he wants what we will offer?”

  “Yes. But I am regent, Eldest. There is a reason that I can find your forest if I so choose; a reason that I am not lost in the upper remove of the manse. There is a reason Jarven cannot find the hidden wilds on his own. We both know it. What I consider necessary, The Terafin will accept. There is trust between us. If I accept your offer, the finer details will, of course, be yours to negotiate. But the larger ones? If you demanded one human sacrifice, a single living person, to save the entire city, The Terafin would not accept it.”

  “Not even if the sacrifice were willing?”

  Finch smiled. “Not even then.”

  “Curious. Why?”

  “Because that is where it would start. But ‘willing’ is a word that has too many shades. If a man volunteers in order to save the lives of his children, one could call him willing. We would not.”

  “One life for thousands.”

  “We will lose hundreds before the end,” she replied. “If not thousands. But it matters, as you well know.”

  The fox shook his head, eyes darting to Jarven and back to Finch. “What do you . . . ask?”

  “Will he be a sacrifice? Will you kill him?”

  The fox exhaled. “No.”

  “Will your aid kill him, in the end?”

  “Harder to say. He is not a cautious man.”

  “He is enormously cautious.”

  The fox shook his head, impatient. “We speak of different things, Finch. Once he has begun his game, his hunt, he is cautious—but he is reckless in the choice of the game. He is willing, once he engages, to spend the whole of his life, and the lives of others, in pursuit of victory. He sets his own conditions for defeat.”

  All of it was true. “And you believe that he will choose to play a deeper, deadlier game if he serves you.” She emphasized the word “serve” but didn’t look to Jarven to see its effect.

  “I believe he will be able to play.”

  “You would not compel him?”

  “If compulsion were necessary, I would not desire him. No. He will be what he is; to change it too much is to lose his value.”

  “Will he become immortal?”

  The fox wheezed with laughter. “Immortality was ever the lure for the mortal.”

  Finch shook her head. “I know an immortal man. The only thing he desires is death.”

  “You speak of Viandaran, of course.”

  She nodded.

  “We are not the gods of old—not yet. We could not curse your Jarven in such a fashion. We do not have that power or that permission.” He met her eyes, saw that she would wait, and said, “No.”

  “Will he keep his soul?”

  The tail of the fox rose, then. It grew much longer, although its essential nature appeared to be unchanged. “Is that of concern?”

  “It is.”

  “Why?”

  “The bridge awaits us, unless you do not believe in it. It was not meant for you, Eldest. It was meant for mortals.”

  “We are not Kialli, to take the soul and husband it.”

  She bent and set the fox on the floor. “When we die,” she told the fox, “we travel across the bridge to the Halls of Mandaros, where our lives are judged. He claims our memories, and we return, we are reborn. It is the only immortality allowed us. If you kill him, he is free to cross the bridge. If he dies in your service, he is free to cross the bridge.

  “But if you hold him, hold his soul somehow, he will be lost to the rest of us forever.”

  “He will be lost to you, regardless,” the fox pointed out. The tail extended again, wrapping itself around Finch’s wrist. “And if you chance to meet again, you will not recognize each other. You will not be Finch. He will not be Jarven.” The way he said this made her realize that only Jarven would be considered a loss.

  But Finch was accustomed to being dismissed and undervalued in this office. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. “You must decide how much you want him. I have seen the Winter King. I know when he lived. I know he will not die unless the Winter Queen does. I don’t care what Jarven wants. If that is the fate that awaits him, he can rot to death in this office.�
� Before the fox could reply, she added, “Killing me won’t solve the roadblock, Jarven. In this, you could threaten—and no one could threaten me more effectively—and it wouldn’t matter. You would never reach the forest, no matter how completely I caved in to that threat.”

  “I am impressed with the foresight of The Terafin.” Jarven’s voice was thin.

  “It’s not foresight—you could game that.”

  “Seven of your centuries,” the fox interrupted, reaching the same conclusion that Jarven had.

  “Seven centuries?”

  “Your centuries. I am fair.”

  “One. One century.”

  “That would hardly justify my efforts.” The fox thwacked the floor. “I would take the one century if it were not cramped by your conception of time.”

  “How would you define it?”

  “By his.”

  Finch folded her arms, pursed her lips. “I have not insulted your intelligence, Eldest. I would appreciate if you did not insult mine.”

  The fox wheezed. “If she did not own you, I might change my mind. I think I would take you. But it is fair, regardless—it is his perception that will cause suffering. That was the case with Viandaran, and it is still the case.”

  Finch considered this. “You would do nothing to interfere with that perception? You would not contain or imprison him in the span of a single day in order to extend your ownership? You would accept that his perception was not to be interfered with or gamed?”

  “Grudgingly.”

  “And when he has lived out his indenture, will you release his soul?”

  “Yes.”

  She exhaled. “You will not ask him to do things that The Terafin would never allow.”

  The fox looked outraged. “He does that now, without my interference. I want him, Finch. Hobble him too completely and he will not be himself. Do you not trust him?” Sly, sly voice.

  “Of course not,” she replied. “But he’s always been confined by the power of the merely mortal. He is not talent-born; he has had to broker magic for his personal use from the Order. He is not an army, and although he might—just might—be able to hire a small one, he has to do it the hard way. He has to live alongside the laws of the Twin Kings, and if he breaks them—”

  “When,” the fox said.

  “Fine. When he breaks them, he is still bound by the necessity to appear to have followed them to the letter.”

  “He will be himself,” the fox replied. “Just . . . better. I will not take him if you attempt to bind him in any way. His conscience, such as it is, will be his own.”

  Finch nodded.

  Throughout this negotiation, Jester had been silent. He set his empty glass down—on Jarven’s desk—and scooped the fox up. “We will return home,” he told Finch. She nodded. To the fox, he added, “Let go of her wrist. Without breaking it or cutting her. Please.”

  “Warden,” the fox said, nodding—to Finch.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are. I did not realize it until this afternoon. You are her mortal Warden. You are the Warden of the spaces which we do not, and cannot yet, command. You are imperfect, of course; your control and your oversight are crippled. But you are Warden, here.”

  The single word “yet” remained after Jester had closed the door behind them. Finch turned then to face Jarven.

  • • •

  “I would have accepted the seven centuries,” he said, his voice so mild he seemed relaxed, at peace.

  “A pity, then, that he was not negotiating with you.” She considered remaining on the carpet Jarven had installed to provide protection against magical attack, and decided against it, moving instead to her desk.

  “What did he offer?”

  “You will have to have that discussion, Jarven. I have literally no idea what he wants from you, or what he’ll offer you. None. He might turn you into a giant boar. Or a monkey.”

  “It is to be hoped not. A century?”

  “A century in your perceived time, yes.”

  “Very well. Shall we go?”

  “I have two meetings this afternoon.”

  “You are wearing your worry.”

  She shrugged.

  “You are afraid of me?”

  She shook her head. “Not on my own behalf. I have taken precautions of my own, of course, but I am aware that were my death your goal, I would be dead.”

  “That is hardly sporting.”

  Finch nodded. “It isn’t. Perhaps my best defense against you has always been that I am not much sport.” She glanced away. “Perhaps I have hope that in granting this, I will be spared the fate of every other protégé you’ve taken on.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Finch shrugged. “I’m not you. I’ve never wanted rivals, worthy or otherwise. I don’t enjoy engaging them as you do. I don’t feel that it proves anything about me. But I’ve learned from you. I’ve learned everything I can. I will never feel ready—but I am not what I once was.”

  “No. You are Terafin’s regent.” His smile was fond; Finch thought it was genuine. “You understand,” he continued, ignoring his tea, “that I want this?”

  She nodded. “And before you feel the need to expound, I’m well aware of what happens to people who choose to stand between you and what you want.” Her smile was genuine.

  “And you might choose to stand there anyway?” His voice, his posture, were casual.

  “If it’s on the path between me,” she replied, “and what I want.”

  And the sun that entered a window bare, for the moment, of curtains was lovely and warm, as warm as Jarven’s expression. And as caring about where it fell as Jarven himself.

  But that, she thought, was what she loved about both Jarven and sunlight. They were forces of nature; the sun could be too bright or too punishing in its summer heat, and it could be warmth and succor in the winter, a reminder that ice and snow were not eternal. But they answered to no one, and only a fool tried to tell the sun when, and how, to rise—or fall.

  In a fashion, it was kindness. Jarven, no matter how old or frail he might in truth become, expected nothing and judged nothing. If she chose to stab him in the figurative back, he might smile just as he was smiling now: as if she, too, had finally become as uncontained a force of nature as he.

  Chapter Four

  20th day of Morel, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  MERALONNE APHANIEL STOOD IN the folds of wild wind as if he had never touched the ground; as if he never again would. Beneath his feet, the Terafin manse sprawled in the quiet of morning activity. Gardeners—for so they called themselves—tended their tame plots of insignificant foliage, unaware that beyond them, almost beside them, the forest teemed with life. Only one of their number understood the difference; only one was drawn by, compelled by, the wilderness.

  It was time. Sigurne Mellifas had donned the ring.

  He could see her, a faintly luminous presence, across the bay; she had entered the hundred holdings. He did not know her business there and, were she not the one conducting it, would not have cared. But he guessed where she had gone, for Moorelas’ Sanctum was across the bay, at the strained boundary between hundred and sea wall.

  The wind called his name. The air, like the hush of the wilderness, promised storm: thunder and lightning. But the sky was unaccountably clear. Was he prepared? Was he ready?

  No. He had no shield. He had lost it, in the dark labyrinths of what had once been city, to a Duke of the Hells, a battle he had undertaken for reasons that were growing increasingly dim and inconsequential.

  The lack of the shield had not troubled him; even had he held it, its polished surface would be blank, the regalia of the only rank he had ever desired to hold stripped from him by the august displeasure of the White Lady.

  He frowned at a flicker of movement on the grounds below.

  Finch. Finch ATerafin. He could hear the wilderness speak her name; he could see the trees shuffle
to the right or the left to grant her entry because she was mortal and could not enter in any other way. He heard the joy, the excitement, the faint threads of worry, in the rustle of leaves and the movement of the denizens of the wilderness.

  Worry?

  Ah. She was not alone. From the north, he became aware of the Warden. She labored—had been laboring—in a silence so complete he had not seen her until the moment she responded to the forest’s concern, but she, like Finch, had company.

  Interesting. Birgide Viranyi had not been Meralonne’s choice of Warden, but the forest’s itself. Given her interest—her famed and previously derided interest—in the Ellariannatte, perhaps this should not have come as a surprise. But he understood that she had been tested, and she had not been found wanting; that she had surrendered some part of her essential self to the forest and the trees that she so unaccountably loved.

  He had not expected the enigmatic Haval Arwood to become her most frequent companion while she resided there. Meralonne was not a keen observer of humanity and human nature; he understood well those parts of it that involved a desire for power, for dominance, but the rest was—had always been—inconsequential.

  He did not, therefore, understand Haval Arwood or Haval’s role. He was not mentor, but he was not servant. He was often resented, and his knowledge was exemplary for a human—deeper and sharper than the knowledge of even The Terafin, who had claimed these lands with an irrevocable authority, a primal certainty.

  And yet he was here.

  And it appeared that he had chosen—or the forest had chosen—to allow him to accompany the Warden as she moved to cut off Finch, and the guest Finch had chosen to bring with her.

  And last, he recognized that guest, and his lips folded in a smile, a complicated expression. He had last seen that man standing on the very slender strip of ground just outside of the Merchant Authority building, while literal demons fought just above his head.

  There was a story here—but it was a slight thing, a curiosity; it only barely caught his attention. He knew why as he slowly made his way down from his perch of air.

  Shianne.

  20th day of Morel, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Forest, Averalaan Aramarelas