Firstborn

by Michelle West

  The Winter King frowned but nodded.

  “There are other ways to survive. An army is not the only gathering of men; it is not even the most common. An army is not the only threat man faces. There are others. Hunger. Disease. Isolation.”

  “Isolation? Namann, I was never alone.”

  “No. You were never alone.” Andrei’s quiet statement did not sound like agreement. “Did you have children?”

  A pause, brief and cold. “Yes.”

  “How many of them did you kill?”

  Hectore said, and did, nothing because he could not lift a foot.

  The man that Andrei called the Winter King did not answer the question, but his silence had texture, weight. It was answer enough. Winter, when seen through a window, could be—was—beautiful. But it could kill, and only the drunk or the foolish forgot that.

  “How many of his own,” Andrei continued, when no answer was forthcoming, “has Patris Araven killed?”

  “Andrei, I feel that this line of questioning is far too personal. I cannot see its relevance.”

  It was Jarven, therefore, who answered—and he looked at the Winter King. “He has, of course, killed none. Nor has he been forced to end the lives of his grandchildren or great-grandchildren. He has killed no wives, no mistresses, and perhaps a handful of servants.”

  “He has killed no servants,” Andrei said, attempting to retrieve the reins of the odd conversation.

  “Oh?”

  “They were assassins, and I dispatched them.”

  “I consider that killing,” Hectore said. “If you are my servant, you do not kill on your own recognizance, but on mine. The sword is not responsible for the deaths it causes; the man who wields it is.”

  “And you claim to wield namann?”

  “He is my servant,” Hectore replied.

  “You believe this.” There was a faint—and almost insulting—condescension in the statement. Hectore, however, was a merchant. He had heard far worse.

  “And you?” the Winter King said to Jarven ATerafin.

  “I am Jarven ATerafin. I am not of Araven, and I am not his servant.”

  “His liege, then?”

  “No. Hectore will accept alliances of convenience when circumstances require it, but he would not accept a pledge of allegiance that was, at base, without merit. I will not, and do not, serve.”

  “Yet you travel by his side.”

  Jarven shrugged and, to Hectore’s surprise, said, “Yes. I was bored.”

  • • •

  The Winter King laughed.

  Hectore swore later that his laughter shook branches; he could feel it rise up from the road beneath his feet.

  “How much longer?” Hectore’s question was a whisper, meant for Andrei’s ears.

  Andrei lifted a hand, gestured. Soon.

  “You do not bear the scars of a warrior,” the Winter King said, mirth still evident in the corners of his eyes, his lips. He spoke to Jarven.

  “No. When pressed, I can wield a weapon, but any fool can. I am unwilling to entrust any single weapon with my safety or success. But I understand that any choice is a gamble; Patris Araven has chosen different risks. If Andrei had offered me his service, I would have accepted in a heartbeat. But what Hectore offers, I cannot. It is not a matter of wealth or freedom; it is not a matter of stature—clearly.

  “I have no wife and no children. I saw them as inevitable weaknesses. Anchors. But power in the Empire does not depend on children. Bloodline is of little consequence to me. I have no dynastic ambitions. You must have, once—but dynasty is irrelevant to the Winter Queen.”

  The Winter King nodded.

  “Tell me. Tell me what the Winter Queen wants from her King.”

  “In the end? To kill him.”

  “And before that?”

  The Winter King’s smile was difficult to describe. “Companionship, of a kind. While I live, she is mine; she is Winter. I am not subordinate. The men who form my small company obey my commands as if they were hers. I hunt,” he added softly.

  “To what end?”

  “It alleviates boredom.”

  Jarven’s smile was almost a reflection of the Winter King’s. “You do not walk as a lamb to slaughter.”

  “No. That is not what Winter requires. She will hunt me when the seasons turn, and if she is capable of it, she will kill me.”

  “And if she is not?”

  “Who knows?”

  “It has never been done?”

  “In the history of this world? No. There is Winter. There is Summer. Each has a king. At the end of the season, the king is sacrificed; the seasons turn.”

  “And no Winter King goes peacefully to his death.”

  “Would you?”

  Jarven chuckled. “No. What sport would that be?”

  The Winter King nodded. “Winter draws to a close soon. They know it. I know it. We have hunted across the many, many planes. But she yearns, now, for Summer, an end to the bitter cold. She will not have it, while I live. I am last in a long line of powerful men. I surrendered all hope of dynasty to accept her offer. But legacy?” He shook his head. “What man surrenders that? She will remember me. I will be the Winter King.”

  “And that is why you have come to the tangle?”

  “No.” Winter smile. “Something crossed my domain and, in passing, destroyed things I valued.”

  “You are not here for revenge.”

  “Odd. That is not what most would assume.”

  “You do not have a concept of justice, and revenge, at base, requires it. Something has piqued your interest.”

  “Just as something has piqued yours, yes. I have been told by those who dare to advise me that those responsible for the destruction are like snowstorms or avalanche; they are forces of nature in the wild world.”

  Andrei stiffened beneath Hectore’s hand.

  “I seek to capture nature for my own amusement.”

  “And you have entered the tangle to do so.”

  “It is to the tangle that they fled,” the Winter King replied. “But if I could not traverse something as insignificant as the tangle, what hope would I have of capturing them?”

  “She does not understand how dangerous you are,” Andrei said.

  “You are wrong, namann. She understands exactly how dangerous I am. I am Winter King. For no other reason was I chosen.” He turned, and then turned back.

  “Patris Araven. You have killed none of your own offspring?”

  “None.”

  “And none of your wives.”

  “No.”

  He was silent, as if searching for words. In the end, he did not find them. To Andrei he said, “Our roads have almost parted.”

  Andrei nodded.

  “Were we in any other lands, I would have swept you from them.”

  “As you say,” Andrei replied.

  Jarven shook his head in pinched disapproval. “That is not the appropriate leave-taking.”

  “No? Perhaps you wished me to say he would have tried?”

  “What I prefer is irrelevant to what is proper. Manners have their place in any situation. Do you believe that the Winter King could move you should you choose to stand your ground?”

  “It is irrelevant. We want different things of the tangle, and the tangle is not easily traversed. Not for the sake of his own pride would he commit himself to a battle of that nature here. I have given him reasons to avoid that battle, and he has accepted them; he has chosen to grace us with his company while the tangle churns beneath our feet.

  “He could attempt to kill Hectore because it is Hectore that forms the anchor here. It might amuse him. It might not. But even you would think twice about such a decision when there is no obvious gain.”

  Hectore lost the flow of their bickering words, as if they were the rustle of overhead leaves, the babble of passing brook. He watched the back of the man who called himself the Winter King and understood, watching, what that King had not—could not bring him
self—to ask.

  As that back grew more remote, as the hunters once again closed ranks behind it, Hectore raised his voice, “I loved them both. I love my children.”

  “And were you foolish enough to believe that you loved them from the beginning?” the Winter King asked. He did not turn back, did not glance over his shoulder; he continued to walk, as if to put distance between himself and the words that had left him.

  “Yes.”

  “Did the first wife die in childbed, then?”

  Hectore was silent, remembering. But at length he said, voice thicker, “No.”

  “And not, as you’ve said, by your hand?”

  “No.”

  The Winter King said, “There will be no second wife, no second Queen, no second Lord for me. There will be no other desire, no other Winter, no other kingdom. In my life, while I draw breath, there is the Winter Queen, only the Winter Queen—and she is mine while Winter reigns.”

  Hectore said nothing. The forest remained above his head, but the road inexplicably faded. His legs were stiff. “Andrei?”

  “Yes. It is safe to move. Mark my footsteps and follow them as you can.”

  “And if I cannot?”

  “This small stretch of forest will hold.”

  Hectore’s voice was soft when he spoke again. “He longs for Summer.”

  “That is the failing of mortals,” Andrei replied. “But he understands that he will never see that Summer. He was not, and could not be, Summer King; he did not have that death in him.”

  “Or that life?”

  “Or that,” Andrei said. “But mortals often feel that if they give everything they have to give, it is—or should be—enough.”

  “And it is not?”

  “Hectore, please.”

  “It is a serious question.”

  “You have some familiarity with Jarven ATerafin. Could he give your family what you have given them over the decades?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Even if he desired to do so?”

  “Might I remind you that I am present?” Jarven said.

  “You disagree?”

  “Pragmatically, no. I have no desire to descend into sentimental drivel for the whole of my life; it has its uses, but so does poison.”

  “You have never been in love,” Hectore said. Jarven did not trouble to hide his disdain. “No, I will take that one step further. You do not, and have not, loved. You allow yourself affection; you have affection for Lucille. You annoy her when you are bored, but you have never set yourself against her. You would, however, if you felt it necessary.

  “Lucille would not turn against you.”

  “Ah, Hectore. You are so perceptive, and yet so wrong. If Lucille felt that I was a danger to the House itself, if she felt that I was a danger to the Empire—if, perhaps, she thought I was demonic—she would. You have always liked her; she has always regarded you with suspicion. But she is not like me; she is like you, with far less tact.”

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  “Lucille loves, as you define love. I will not disagree. Could I give what you give? Yes. But not, I fear, for long. It is not what I want. It is small, quotidian, uninteresting.”

  “I argue that this means you cannot give it.”

  “How so? I assure you, no one would know the difference.”

  Hectore stepped over a tree root, which required more concentration because the root stretched to mid-thigh. “You would know,” he said, when he had managed to find level ground again.

  “Love requires self-deception, then?”

  “Do not test my patience; I find it is in short supply. You would take no joy in it. You would take no delight in it. You would find no measure of self-respect in shouldering the responsibilities on days when joy or delight are markedly absent.”

  “Let us assume this is true. Surely, if the wife—or children or Lucille—can discern no difference, it is not different.”

  “It is different,” Hectore replied, grimacing briefly as he approached the next root. “The joy is not in the possession, it is in being. Husband. Father. Brother. Godfather. It is in the connection.”

  “I have seen how inconvenient even your godchildren are.”

  “Yes. But that is family, Jarven.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Yet you, a family man, are here in the most wild of the wilderness, with your foremost servant, who is not, and will never be, mortal. I sense fraud.”

  “Fraud? Why?”

  “You want what I want.”

  “I want some of what you want, yes. I fail to see fraud in this. We have different desires, of course. Boredom would not be enough of an excuse to bring me to this place. I am here for reasons you consider, at base, contemptible. Your contempt is irrelevant, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I am willing to learn. I am willing to attempt to understand this landscape and the reason for it; it has a practical, obvious effect on my life. In that, we are not dissimilar. But I do not relish it.”

  “Liar.”

  “I do not often relish it. Andrei, will the roots continue in this fashion?”

  “No.”

  Jarven did not seem to have the navigational difficulty that plagued Hectore. “You believe that the Winter King wants . . . what you want?”

  Hectore was silent while pulling himself up to the roots’ height. “Relationships are best begun as you mean to continue.”

  “And that is relevant?”

  “He longs for Summer,” Hectore said again.

  “He is Winter King,” Andrei added. “Summer cannot exist while he lives.”

  “Were I he,” Jarven said, after a pause, “I would ensure that the world remain in Winter.”

  “If you can’t have it, no one can?”

  “Or something similar, yes.” Jarven’s smile was dry as kindling.

  Andrei glanced at the Terafin merchant once, but he said nothing.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ANGEL TOUCHED JEWEL’S SHOULDER; she looked back as he signed. She then looked at Kallandras; the bard shook his head. He couldn’t hear Snow. Neither could she. Shadow implied heavily that it was obvious where Snow was, but cats never owned ignorance—at least not their own. Night, however, was subdued. The only thing that held his attention for long was Shadow, and Jewel hesitated to let them brawl. She was certain that they would survive it—they always did—but not certain that she wouldn’t lose them here.

  Shianne walked in Jewel’s footsteps. Kallandras did the same. Adam, however, walked by her side or sometimes stepped ahead. He did not disappear, nor did he appear to be altered. Jewel did not understand the tangle.

  “His path,” Shianne said, “is your path, for a little while yet. Here, he is yours, and he knows it. The cats are yours in similar fashion—but no one has ever truly owned them.”

  “We are not really hers,” Shadow hissed.

  “Oh?”

  “She is ours.”

  “She is not yours.” Shianne’s expression was grave, magisterial, but Jewel could sense her uneasiness.

  “Shadow.”

  “Yesssssss?” His eyes were silver, ringed by an aurora of gold, centered around pupils that defined the color black. His shadow was long; it flickered around the edges, reflecting no obvious change of shape while implying many. Night’s shape, however, seemed blurred.

  “Stop bothering Shianne.”

  “Me? Me? I am not bothering her—she is being stupid.” He was spitting around the sibilants, his claws gouging earth in a dance of frustration. He seldom called Shianne stupid; that was a word reserved for his brothers, Jewel, and her den.

  Night, however, hissed laughter, and Jewel watched the lines of his fur shift, hardening. “What did you expect? They are all stupid.”

  Shianne was not Jewel, of course; Shadow’s frustration was met with a wall of ice. There was nothing about her expression that implied resignation and much that implied death. Not her own, of course.

&nb
sp; It didn’t help much that Calliastra’s lips twitched at the corners.

  Angel, however, was sane. He grimaced over the head of at least one cat, but he said nothing.

  “Leave Shianne alone,” Jewel told the gray cat, “and find your missing brother. We need to leave the tangle.”

  Long-suffering cat was only slightly less difficult than bored cat. It certainly wasn’t any less loud.

  • • •

  The tangle was difficult in ways that Jewel had not expected. Had she entered a nightmare landscape in which the world shifted from one step to the next, she might have found it more comfortable because the weight of each step would be concrete, visible, immediate.

  And the world did change, but the changes were slow, subtle; the path beneath her feet remained anchored in a forest version of earth. At times it was wide enough that her entire company might walk without restriction, and at times so narrow it was difficult to find a foot-width’s space in which to take that step.

  And the step was permanent, irretrievable. She had looked back once, over her shoulder. The path that she instinctively followed could no longer be seen—or perhaps felt. There was only one way out, and it was in.

  • • •

  Hope, when it came, was a mixed blessing.

  A roar of rage, more felt than seen, punctuated the silence in which the company now walked. The earth beneath Jewel’s feet shuddered for long enough that she was afraid of earthquake. If she lost her way here, while the ground broke beneath her, she would never find her way home.

  But the roar subsided.

  Twice more, the roar shook the earth itself. There were syllables buried in that roar, which made it somehow worse. Kallandras, when asked, simply nodded: it was Snow. But the reverberations of misplaced cat faded into unnatural silence quickly, as if all noise was being hungrily devoured.

  There were no birds, no forest rodents, no droning buzz of the insects that should have otherwise been present; the hush itself was oppressive. But there was something about it that made the silence very hard to break. She lifted her hands in den-sign, her fingers moving slowly, deliberately.

  Can you hear it? she asked.

  Angel shook his head.

  Silence returned, laden with the weight of worry. It had been chief among the crimes one could commit against Jewel’s Oma, when that old woman had been alive, her pipe her scepter, her regalia. One did not make her grandmother worry and escape unscathed.