The Shining Falcon

Chapter I Falcon And Crow

High over Kirtesk, the prince's city, a falcon sported in the clear sky—a falcon like no other, glinting bright in the sun, silver in the morning light.

Below, leaning gingerly out of a window in the white and gold royal palace, old boyar Semyon, chief of the princely council, eldest of that noble lot, craned his head back to watch, and gave a wry, amused little smile.

«How like his father he is! Escaping from the court like this, if only for a time—our Prince Finist may be a wise young man, wise in statecraft, wise in magic, but sometimes the wind does call to him!»

Across the smooth, paved square, another watched that flight. Ljuba, lovely Ljuba, hair a knee‑length fall of burnished gold, eyes deep and lustrous blue, royal Ljuba, cousin to the prince, stood at a sheltered window in her own small palace, staring after that falcon with eyes which blazed with undisguised passion.

God, to fly like that!

Oh, Ljuba could master the shifting to a second, avian shape—of course she could. Magic ran through all the royal line; it always had. And each member of that line had, as part of his or her birthright, an avian shape almost as easy to the wearing as the natural human form. But for Ljuba what should be a simple thing, a gentle shifting of shape, was far from easy. For her, the change ate at her strength, pointing out her shame, the fact that the magic she'd inherited was weak, weak.

True, she'd had the will to study on her own, seeking through arcane scrolls the knowledge that should have been innately hers, the touch of Power in her blood giving her at least a slight edge over any totally nonmagical would-be sorcerer trying to learn spells by rote. True, her understanding of secret, magical herbs was second to none; there was a certain satisfaction in seeing her potions work, watching torn flesh heal or fever flee.

But that was such a small thing. To wield something of Finist's effortless magic, to feel the Power running through one's veins, strong and sweet… The true-shape forced on her by her own weak magic was no graceful falcon, but a crow, nothing but a common, ugly crow. She seldom flew, at least not when anyone could see.

Flight's the least of it!

Watching Finist's shining, easy, self‑confident skill, Ljuba felt a sharp, irrational stab of hatred for her dead mother, hatred at her for having been only petty nobility, for having left her daughter barely enough Power to prove royal blood, for having left her so far from the direct line of succession that even Finist's sudden death wouldn't improve her rank.

No, should Finist die, unwed and childless as he was, his uncle would take the throne: «Vasili.» Ljuba spat the name. Gentle Vasili—priestly Vasili, there in his quiet mountain monastery.

He'd sworn an oath once, had Vasili, years back, presumably lest he be used by plotters against his brother, Finist's father. He'd sworn never again to enter Kirtesk.

But let our Finist die, and we'll see how quickly dear Vasili bows to fate and overcomes his scruples. He's still young enough to wed, to sire heirs. Heirs! And where does that leave me?

Ljuba glared up at her cousin with a new fierceness, heart pounding. Finist didn't even suspect! He thought she chose to isolate herself from court with her herbs. He knew she'd have no reason at all to attack him.

So my dear cousin leaves me alone with my studies— Oh, fool!

She'd stumbled on it almost by accident, after all the years of trial and failure, she'd discovered the one potion that just might bring her power… But something within her hesitated. Something within her wanted to turn away, arguing that she wasn't ready, it wasn't time, afraid to act, afraid—

No. She had to face the truth. On her own, she would never be able to win the throne, or wield true Power, or do anything at all of any worth. The only way Ljuba was ever going to have any chance to rule Kirtesk was by ruling Finist himself!

Wildly she flung up a hand. The air about it shimmered faintly—heat-haze shimmer, magic haze—as the long, graceful fingers began to weave intricate patterns. The faintest of crooning syllables left Ljuba's lips, the sound caressing, compelling…

«Come to me, Finist, come to me…»

Again the charm was repeated, again…

But the falcon, wheeling easily in the free sky, showed not the slightest sign of heeding.

Finist, the wind whistling through his feathers, wasn't being quite as frivolous as either his counselor or his cousin might think. No, he was making use of an advantage no magicless prince could claim: he was analyzing his city's strengths and weaknesses from the air, his falcon's vision rendering even the smallest detail crisply clear.

And what he saw was pleasing. No piles of disease-breeding refuse in his city! Kirtesk might not be as grand or as large as some other royal cities he might name—such as Radost and Stargorod, far to the west—but it was clean and neat and nicely ordered there in the early morning sunlight, all the streets paved with proper planking. Aside from that paving, there was little use of wood; save for the occasional one-story, gaily painted house with its intricately carved shuttered and doorposts, most of Kirtesk's buildings were made of stone, two or sometimes, daringly, even three stories high, their steeply sloping, many-gabled roofs shingled with slate that glowed a clean blue-grey in the sunlight.

The Pact still stands.

He meant that pact his magical ancestors, long generations back, had sworn with Those of the forest at Kirtesk's founding. There was a good deal of the Old Magic still alive in that vast, surrounding forest, the raw Power of elemental nature that was so much stronger than anything mere humans could control, and it was wisest to keep on its good side. The Pact had stated simply: so long as the humans of the city never harmed the forest, the forest would never encroach on the city. Kirtesk's planking came only from dead or diseased trees.

Finist nodded to himself. The Pact was a fine and just thing. And stone houses were far less likely to catch fire.

The prince caught a smooth current of air under his wings, enjoying the silken play of it about his body, and made one more wide sweep over Kirtesk, studying the stone wall surrounding it—another source of pride, pact notwithstanding, since even Stargorod had to make do with a mere wooden palisade—then headed back towards the royal palace where it burned dazzingly bright against the cloudless sky.

Motion far below caught the falcon's eye, and Finist glanced down to see a group of folk headed that way, moving shyly, dressed mostly in homespun: farmers come, as was their right this third day of the month, to present petitions. He watched them point up towards his gleaming self, nudging each other, making self‑conscious little bows, and Finist sighed. So much for free time.

He flung himself into one last, wild loop in the air for the sheer joy of flight, then came swooping down through an open palace window, folding his wings at the last possible moment to make it safely through the narrow opening, then throwing them wide again to kill his speed, coming to a smooth landing on the marble floor. The change began as he willed it, the swift, dizzying not-quite-pain, not-quite-pleasure as bones and sinews stretched and lengthened, as the sense of smell returned in a dazzling rush of sandalwood, leather, silk, as colors brightened and vision dulled to the merely human once more.

Patient servants stood waiting as the falcon-shape rapidly blurred, grew, then resolved itself into the form of a tall young man, somewhat breathless, hair silvery and tousled, eyes bright amber. Quickly and efficiently, used to their shape-shifting master, they dressed him in regal robes stiff with gold thread, combing the wild, bright hair into docility, placing a thin golden circlet on Finist's head while he caught his breath and adjusted to being human again.

«So," he said at last, grinning. «Thank you, all of you. And now, to business.»

With that, the Prince of Kirtesk, all wildness hidden, swept regally down to the great audience hall.

Ljuba had watched helplessly as the falcon disappeared blithely into the royal palace. Now, with an angry, weary little hiss of a sigh, she let her hand fall.

That spell would have caught an ordinary man. It had, several times before this; Ljuba was not one to risk an untested spell. But I should have known. What's enough to snare an ordinary man is never strong enough to snare a magician!

She massaged tired fingers, trying to ignore the whiny little inner voice that whispered, It's fortunate you failed, now you don't have to try again, now you'll be safe…

After all, though Finist was a gentle enough man, if he should learn that she meant to master him, he, the prince… There were certain rumors in the royal family of past members who'd erred in some unpardonable ways, and who, instead of facing the axe, had endured instead a binding into the avian form—a permanent binding. In such a case, the human thoughts would slowly fade, the memory of being human fading with them. Soon self would be lost, and only bird remain.

Ljuba bit her lip, clenching her fists to stop their trembling. The thought of such a fate, of such a total, total loss! It had been enough to waken the child‑Ljuba screaming many a night. And now, grown though she was, the fear remained, softening her, blocking her from doing what she must—

No! Ljuba smacked a hand down angrily on the windowsill. I will not be afraid!

And, after a time, she almost managed to believe it.

All right, then. Maybe she couldn't control Finist by mind alone. Maybe she didn't have the strength for great magic. But Ljuba had no intention of giving up her chance at the throne.

I would be so good for this land!

Better than Finist, surely. Finist spent so much time on commoners, insisting that a realm could only run smoothly if peasants and merchants and crafters were content. He wasted his magic on such creatures, and refused to see the wider picture! She had told him again and again that if only he channeled his magic, he could become a truly mighty prince. Kirtesk could go from being a simple little city-state, wealthy only in trade and happy peasants, to a realm of true power, one to be feared by other lands. But each time he'd merely laughed and told her he had no intention of becoming a tyrant. A tyrant! Was it tyranny to want the best for your land?

For a moment, Ljuba toyed with the image of herself on the throne of Kirtesk, ambassadors from many lands bowing to her in fear and awe…

Nonsense. Daydreams were all well and good, but they accomplished nothing. There was still that potion, though, the potion to sap the will…

Eh, but to be convincing, any changes in Finist were going to have to be slow, subtle. She would have to be close to him for a long time—as his mistress, perhaps… or his wife.

Ljuba had never had any difficulties in seducing men. Finist, magician or no, would be no exception, particularly after he'd had a taste of her potion to encourage him!

Yes, fine, that was the first step. And since they were only distant cousins, there would be no legal bar to their marriage. His boyars were always after him to wed. A few well-placed suggestions to them—oh, she probably wouldn't need any magical force behind the words at all, not if she used proper tact. And with a prince already besotted with her… All she had to do was act, feign love for as long as it took, till she quickened with Finist's child.

Ljuba stared thoughtfully out the window, a cool, predatory glint in her eyes. That much of the plan would work, she was sure. But then would come the dangerous part… After they'd been peacefully wed for a respectable time, she would have to increase the dosage of her potions, but with delicate care. If Finist came to suspect, she was doomed! But if only she were wary enough, Finist wouldn't have a chance of suspecting. He'd begin to fade, slowly, with never a sign of traditional poisons or bespelling. Everyone knew that the royal magic had been known to turn on its wielders: Finist's own grandfather, Prince Vseslav, had actually died of a miscast spell. And even should someone, by wild mischance, guess at the truth, it wouldn't matter. With Finist helpless, mindless, and his wife bearing his only heir…

The boyars will accept me on the throne. They won't have a choice!

A discreet cough made Ljuba whirl. «Anya. What is it?»

The maidservant's curtsey was a quick, respectful, nervous thing. «Mistress, the—the boyar Erema would speak with you. If it pleases you.»

«It doesn't!» Ljuba snapped. Akh, would she never be rid of the man? She could sense him standing just outside the room, feel the turbulence of his longings‑curse him! He'd been her lover once, the bland, dull courtier; he'd been one of her first magical experiments. No longer! But the released power of her spell aimed at Finist had had to go somewhere, and with Erema Mikhailovich still aching for her, he'd drawn it to him like a lodestone. «Bah, tell him to— No, wait.»

Ljuba straightened slowly, thinking, What if… ? Erema was her tool now, and it was surely never wise to cast away a tool.

«Very well. Bid him enter.»

«Shall I… stay, mistress?»

«No, fool!» Ljuba caught and held the servant's gaze, controlling Anya's more submissive personality with her will. «And no one shall know of this visit. Is that understood?»

Anya's face was dull. «No one shall know, mistress.»

As the servant cast open the door, the boyar rushed in on a storm of passion, a young man, dark-haired, supple. Virile of body, thought Ljuba dryly, soft of mind. He fell to one knee before her, kissing the hem of her embroidered caftan like the romantic fool he was. For a time Ljuba looked down on him, unmoved, smiling thinly, then reached down to catch his face between her hands and raise his head so he must look at her.

«Erema. What would you do for me?»

His eyes were glazed with magic and desire. «Anything!»

«Would you do my bidding, hmm? Would you obey me, no matter what?»

«Oh, my dear one, yes! Yes!» His voice was thick with passion. «I—I would take arms against the prince himself if you would only take me back again! The embrace of your sweet arms — "

«Akh, yes," interrupted Ljuba absently. «We shall see.»

But she was thinking fiercely, And now the first step is taken at last. Oh, Finist, here is the beginning of your fall!