The Shining Falcon

Chapter XVI Secrets

That rough wagon ride seemed to last forever. Finist found himself aching to fall asleep right then and there, but every time his eyes would close, he'd be jolted rudely awake again.

Something besides mere physical discomfort was bothering him, too, and that was the fact that his host plainly regretted his charitable offer. At last Finist said sharply:

«Look you, remember I'm a stranger here. I know nothing of your ways. Or your politics.»

That struck home. The man gave him a quick, keen look, and Finist added flatly, «I'm no thief, either, if you're thinking of your treasure.»

The man snorted. «Treasure.» Then, more softly, «I have a treasure, yes. A living one: my daughters.»

«And I am no ruffian, either. All honor to my host's kin.»

That seemed to set the other's mind at ease, at least for the moment. And soon after that—praise be to Heaven, thought Finist—they reached an end to that uncomfortable ride.

Finist paused in the middle of dismounting from the wagon, looking about. There was nothing unusual here, a small farm consisting of a shabby log house surrounded by the few outbuildings to be found on such a poor place, the lot surrounded by a crudely cut palisade of wooden stakes. But his host's daughters… If the driver's voice had hinted of noble breeding, his eldest daughter fairly radiated it, tall and slender and lovely as she was, elegant even in the simple blouse and overdress any peasant woman might wear, with a delicacy of bone that spoke of generations of aristocratic stock.

This, Finist learned, was Vasilissa. He bowed, and she smiled with studied politeness, eyeing his plainness with an equally polite dismay. But their eyes met for an instant; and in that instant, a bewildered Finist saw her dismay turn to fear. Hand to her mouth, the young woman shrank back, watching him with eyes gone wild and wide.

No one else seemed to find anything odd about her reaction. Confused, hazy‑minded from fatigue, Finist almost took the younger woman with her for a servant. It wasn't so surprising. She looked too… capable for aristocracy, at ease in her peasant dress as though simple wool and fine silk were all the same to her. Not as tall as her sister, not as elegant, too tanned of skin for courtly beauty, too sunbleached of hair. But her smile seemed genuine, and her brown eyes friendly.

This, it seemed, was Maria.

But that was all Finist learned, for the last of his much-abused strength had faded. He was dimly aware of entering the farmhouse, finding it neat and scrupulously clean despite the shabbiness; he was dimly aware of sitting down abruptly. But after that, he remembered nothing but falling into a deep well of sleep…

He awoke to a vision of warm brown eyes and a gentle smile‑Maria, at his bedside.

Unfortunately, he also awoke to a feverish head and an aching throat. Wonderful, thought Finist wryly. My body's taking revenge on me for abusing it. Even magicians, it would seem, could become quite mundanely ill.

He started to croak out some embarrassed apology to his hostess, but she waved him to silence.

«Don't be silly. Everyone falls sick sometime.» She draped a damp, cool cloth across his forehead—oh, wondrous coolness! — and continued softly, «Besides, I'm in your debt. You saved my father's life.»

«I only did what — "

«Hush, now. Spare your throat. I know what you did. He told me. I repeat, I am in your debt.»

The next day found Finist on his feet again, albeit still miserable, queasy and dizzy, albeit over Maria's protests. But he couldn't go much longer without letting his people know what had happened to him. And he was only too well aware that on such an impoverished farm, with only the three family members and no servants, he would very quickly become a burden.

He made it all the way out of the house. But the next thing Finist knew, he was sitting down hard on a bench just outside the farmhouse's log walls, telling himself firmly that of course he'd meant to sit down.

And for a time, sit was all the prince did, drawing strength to him from sunlight and Warm Mother Earth. There before him, back to him, was the older daughter, Vasilissa, with a woven basket of laundry, hanging the wet clothes with all the frustrated and inefficient clumsiness of some queen forced to do peasant labor. She made such a bad job of it that at last Maria hurried to join her.

«Look, it's simple. I'll show you how — "

«I don't care!» sobbed Vasilissa. «This is servant's work!»

«Lissa, dear, face facts. It's our work now.»

«No, I won't believe it! Maybe you enjoy being a—a peasant, but I don't! I won't! I won't forget how it was!»

Maria's voice trembled. «Don't you think I hate this, too? But the past can't be changed. Oh, my dear, can't you see that?»

She reached out a hand to her sister, but the sobbing Vasilissa slapped it away and turned to run into the house. She stopped short with a strangled gasp, and Finist, embarrassed, realized the sisters hadn't known he was there. He started to apologize, but Vasilissa gave him a horrified glance and raced inside. Maria continued to hang the wet things, trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Finist hesitated, wishing very much he was someplace else, but at the sound of the young woman's soft, hopeless sigh, he knew he had to say something.

«Lady?» he called softly.

«Maria," she corrected.

«Maria, then. Forgive me, I didn't mean to overhear, but… is there any way I might be of help?»

She turned to give him a weary smile. «Oh, it's nothing. All families have their little quarrels.»

«Of course," said Finist noncommitally. «Why is your sister so fearful of me?»

«She—she's not. It's just… We see so few strangers… Please, don't worry about it. You need concern yourself only with getting well.»

But Finist's heart ached with pity at the despair in those bright eyes, and he wondered, What's the secret here? Who are these people?

He didn't think he'd get an answer.

Somehow, he never seemed to be alone that day. Which means I'll probably have to wait till night to contact Semyon. If I last that long.

Stubbornly, dizzily, he made it through the day, stubbornly sat down to dinner with the family—for all that his head ached and his stomach was rebelling at the very thought of food‑in the small, neat main room. He politely ignored the fact that the table consisted only of bare, weatherworn planking. The chairs were ancient things precariously held together with bits of rope. There wasn't room for much else; the great stove took up most of the space. Do they realize the stove's meant for sleeping atop at night? Apparently not. Only true peasants would know that.

Maria, Finist saw, was cook as well as laundress; seeing how lightly balanced her sister's mind seemed to be, he was rather glad of that. Who knew what Vasilissa might choose to slip into his food?

But during the entire meal, the young woman showed no sign of strain: her manners were quite polite, her bearing refined. She said not a word. I might be able to help her, thought Finist. He had never tried to heal a sick mind, but when his strength fully returned, he might— Ha, and have her father try to burn me as a sorcerer?

Dinner finished, they sat for a time and made polite conversation. «Tell me, Finn," said the man who called himself Ivan, «what wonders have you seen in your travels?»

«Wonders.» After a moment's thought, the prince smiled to himself and began to describe his own lands and their magical ruler. Seeing his host and the eldest daughter stirring uneasily, Finist sighed, his suspicions confirmed, and dropped the subject. «Aside from that, I've seen forest, and more forest.»

«They say the forest is magical, too," murmured Maria, surprising the prince a bit. He grinned at her.

«Oh, it is!» Finist began some small, light tale about a woodsman outwitting a leshy, but before he'd gone more than a few words into it, Vasilissa said sharply, «No!»

Startled, he stopped, and she stared at him, wild-eyed. «How can you joke?» she gasped. «The forest is too big, too cold, too cruel‑It wants to crush us, I feel it.»

In the next moment, she was up and away to her room. There was a brief, awkward silence, then the prince said carefully, «I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give offense.»

Ivan sighed. «Of course not. Talk of the old, pagan evils frightens my daughter.»

«Oh, but the old ways aren't all evil!» Finist protested, only to be silenced by the man's glare.

«Sorcery is evil, Finn.»

«Well, yes, it is, I can't argue about that. But all magic isn't evil!»

«Enough!»

«But‑I only meant — "

«I know what you meant! You are a guest here, with guest rights. But such rights do not include immoral words!»

«They weren't — "

«Enough, I say!» The man stopped, restraining himself with obvious effort. «Finn, you are young. Young men think speaking of evil so lightly is daring, worldly. But evil is real, and ugly, and no jest!»

«Oh, agreed, but — "

«And the evil that is magic is no jest, either! I will not have such talk in my house!»

Finist sighed, not used to being scolded like some silly, foul‑mouthed child. But I still need the shelter of this man's roof, at least for now, the prince reminded himself. And so he contented himself with merely bowing his head in compliance.

Ivan got coldly to his feet. «It grows late. Daughter, come.» He caught her by the wrist as though she were some errant child. «Finn, I bid you good night.»

Maria gave him one quick, apologetic look over her shoulder, then Finist was alone and uneasy in a suddenly hostile place.