The Shining Falcon

Chapter Xlll Storms

The wind was rising outside the window of the Ruby Chamber, calling to him, fiercely alluring. And how Finist ached to answer! But within the audience chamber, his counselors droned on and on about taxes, treaties, the price of corn and wheat, all the minutiae of daily life… Despite his best intentions, the prince felt his attention beginning to wander. Once more he found himself musing over that one unsolved puzzle: Erema.

I still could swear Ljuba had something to do with his attack!

But there wasn't any proof. And Ljuba, over the winter, had been quietly building up support among the palace folk, being oh-so-gentle, so willing to help anyone who needed her potions or healing charms.

What a lovely act it is. He could almost believe she'd taken his warning seriously. But to believe that Ljuba had changed so drastically in so short a time? I'm not that much of a fool!

His counselors had paused, aware suddenly of his inattention, and Finist reluctantly signalled to them to continue. After all, he'd summoned them. And he must, in all courtesy, hear them out. Even now, after three full turns of the hourglass.

But how can they expect me to concentrate now, when the wind is calling?

His heart had begun to race in time to its wild song.

Finist glanced down at his hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and saw a shimmering of feathers—

«Prince Finist? Ah, Prince Finist, one thing more, if it please you. We know you're young, but…»

That brought him back to himself with a start. When they began with his youth, there was usually something to follow that he wasn't going to like. «But what? What now? We've already established that the land's peaceful and prosperous. What more can you possibly want to discuss?»

The boyars glanced uneasily at each other, and Finist stirred with impatience, listening to wind-song.

Then Semyon said warily, «The matter of a wife.»

«That again!» He looked about at all the suddenly hopeful faces and sighed. «Eh, well, let's hear it. Whom would you propose this time?»

They hemmed and hawed for a time. «We… uh… agree with Your Highness that most of the candidates so far have not been, uh, quite suitable, for one reason or another. But that brings us back to our original suggestion. What better wife for you, Your Highness, than your cousin?»

«Ljuba!» It was an involuntary explosion of sound. Finist caught himself, and said, more guardedly, «You know how she feels about me. And how I feel about her.»

The counselors looked at him blankly. «But… your pardon, my Prince," began one of them, «but what has that to do with anything? The Lady Ljuba's of the blood royal, after all, and young and healthy, and, ah, very beautiful.»

They quite misunderstood his sudden silence. «And of course, she does have something of the Power," Semyon added enticingly.

It was too much for Finist. «Of course she does!» he spat. He was hardly about to tell them his vague suspicions as to Ljuba's true parentage, but even so… «Look you, all of you, I may be young, as you never fail to remind me, but I'm not a child! I know I must wed someday, I know a prince must have his princess, and a royal heir in the cradle. But that princess will never be Ljuba! Leave it at that!»

Akh, those tolerant, amused little smiles! They were all watching him, secure from the vantage point of their greater years, watching him as though he were a little boy rebelling against being sent to bed before—Oh, enough!

Finist shot to his feet, hearing the confusion behind him as he turned sharply to the window, leaning on the sill, drinking in the sound and feel of the wind all around him. A storm was surely on the way, but right then, half-smothered with thoughts of propriety and Ljuba, he didn't care. He'd done his duty, he'd listened politely to the boyars' reports, he'd been docile and correct and kept his true thoughts in check. No longer!

The prince laughed aloud in sudden keen joy, and sprang onto the sill, taking deep lungfuls of the clear, free air. As he tore off the encumbrance of his silken caftan, he could hear Semyon cry plaintively:

«But my Prince! Where are you going?»

«Wherever the wind takes me!»

And with that, he jumped. There was a moment of human helplessness, then he'd willed the change, and felt the sharp, familiar tug of air against wings as he braked his fall and began to spiral up in fierce freedom, sunlight bright on his feathers. The wind caught him and he laughed, a falcon's shrill cry, and soared out over his city. Some people in the streets far below heard him, and looked up, waving or bowing, and he dipped a wing in courteous reply.

Aie, but the wind up this high was cold and crisp, tugging at him, strong enough to sweep him right out over the city and the wall, out across the fields and beyond, growing stronger by the moment. Wonderful, he thought, wonderful!

But the storm's force was still growing. Deafened by the increasing roar all about him, vision blurring despite nictitating membranes, Finist gasped in shock as a new gust of wind slapped at him with painful force. Before he could recover, he was thrown aside by what felt like a solid wall of air. For a moment, tumbling, helpless against that merciless strength, he let the wind push him as it would, trying only to keep his wings unbroken, praying he wouldn't suddenly be slammed to the ground like some storm‑lost sparrow. Abruptly dropped by the capricious winds into relative calm, Finist struggled, panting, to level out again.

God, how was he going to get out of this? He couldn't fight a storm and live!

Fool! the prince shouted to himself. You felt the wind's warnings; you should have heeded them!

Too late. Dazed, breathless, deafened, he was caught, dragged along, powerless as any true bird, terrified and exhilarated, a helpless part of that wilderness, sweeping verst after verst westward with a dizzying blur of field and forest, endless dark green forest, far below.

Avian lungs labored for breath. Akh, and his wings ached as though they were being torn slowly from his body. Ridiculous, to be trapped like this. He had friends in the upper air, but he couldn't call on them, not in this speechless falcon form, yet if he changed shape, he'd fall.

Eh, wait now, what if I did… ?

What other choice had he? And so, human, Finist fell, arms and legs spread to keep himself level, down through layers of wind, freezing without the warmth of feathers, down and down till— Ah, the winds were weaker here!

With a final surge of effort, Finist became falcon once more, crying out at the strain on his aching wings. But the winds were weaker still—

And suddenly he was free of them, half diving, half falling, tumbling and spiralling to a carpet of trees below him.

It was as clumsy a landing as ever he'd made, leaves blinding him, twigs lashing at his body, but at last his desperately outstretched talons caught at a branch and held, and he was in a tree, alive and unbroken.

For a long, shaken while he perched there, too exhausted to move, craving sleep as a starving man craves food. But he couldn't stay up here, not safely. An overtired avian body tended to slip back into human form of its own accord. He hadn't gone through that stormy ordeal merely to die from a fall out of a tree. Finist groaned, then fluttered painfully to the ground. He huddled under the shelter of a bush, past the point of caring that some woods creature just might like the taste of falcon. He didn't smell like a proper falcon, anyhow… human scent under the bird…

His last coherent thoughts faded away.

Completely drained, Finist slept.