The Shining Falcon

Chapter XVII Trust

Alone in his room —which was Maria's room, actually, he assumed, his arrival having exiled the poor thing to her sister—Finist did his best to put the family and their mysterious problems out of his mind. Now was his chance to contact Semyon, and with this small hand mirror as focus, he should be able to manage…

But he couldn't. Still dizzyingly and maddeningly weak, the prince found himself having to struggle to control his will, fighting to master himself with an effort he hadn't needed since he was a small boy. There, now, the mirror was beginning to properly fog over…

No, it wasn't. Head aching, Finist sank to the bed, stifling a groan. This house wasn't helping him, filled as it was with the fear and hatred of magic, and right now he just didn't have the energy to overcome it.

This is ridiculous! I can heal wounds, treat disease-but I can't seem to be able to do anything against this simple, mundane illness that—

The prince broke off with a sharp, impatient sigh. Forget illness! If he couldn't manage to contact Semyon from in here, then he'd simply have to go outside. The night was clear, not too chilly; he shouldn't take any harm from it. And with the forest all around him, with all its magic, he should at least manage to do something!

Finist stopped short as he reached the farm's wooden palisade, suddenly aware of another presence just on the other side. He stood listening fiercely with a form of hearing that had little to do with the physical.

«My lord leshy," the prince said after a moment. Though the being was little more than a vague shape there in the darkness, the feel of it was unmistakable.

«Magician‑man," came the rustling‑leaves reply. «This is not your realm. Why are you here?»

There was just the faintest touch of menace behind the words. Finist was on good enough terms with the leshy‑lord of the forest surrounding his own lands, but he wasn't about to underestimate the wild magic of these strange beings. «I thought we'd settled that before," the prince said quietly. «I told the forest I'm here only by accident. As soon as I've the strength, I'll leave.»

There was the sound of a faint sniffing. «Phaugh! You smell of human-sickness!''

«I don't doubt it.» Finist leaned against the palisade, head swimming, in no mood or condition for delicate diplomacy. «It's something strictly of humanity, leshy, nothing to affect either you or your forest. But I must enter the forest. I must contact my people, and I can't work the proper spell in here.»

The leshy gave a foxlike bark of a laugh. «Not surprising! Not surprising! They are of the dead places, these folk, the cold stone city places! They fear and hide, and deny anything they cannot touch, or hold, or measure!» There was a long silence, during which Finist knew the being was studying him. «So," it said at last. «Come out here, magician‑man. There is a still pool you may use for your scrying.»

Finist gave the ghost of a chuckle. «And of course, you wouldn't dream of leading me astray, eh? You wouldn't plan to bewilder and lose the poor human, would you?»

The leshy hissed indignantly. «I? Not I! Why would I do such a thing?»

«Because you are what you are, like all your kin, sly as foxes and tricky as the wind. But I warn you, I do know a few tricks of my own.»

It cost him almost more strength than it was worth, but Finist managed to conjure a hint of flickering silver flame at his fingertips, and heard the leshy hiss again, this time in wonder.

«No tricks, magician‑man, no tricks! The forest does not hate such as you, human though you be. Come, come!»

Finist dared follow that dimly seen, capering figure, wondering as he did if he was being a fool to trust a trickster. But the leshy led him truly, and the quiet pool was surely better than any hand mirror for his purposes. Ignoring the forest's curiosity, Finist set about once again focusing his will. It still wasn't as easy as it should have been, but the wild life-force all around him did help, and at last the prince saw his own image fading, to be replaced by greyness. Now, and now… He said the proper Words, concentrating as sharply as he must, feeling the Power growing and growing…

And suddenly it was done. Semyon's image was before him, there in the pool, the old boyar staring in amazement at the image he saw, a wan, brown-haired, brown-eyed stranger in an ugly fur caftan.

«It's me," Finist told him wryly.

«Prince Fin — "

«No, no, don't say it! I still need this shape.»

«But—but, my Prince, where are you? Are you all right? Are you — "

«Alive and unhurt and quite safe.»

«You don't look it.»

«Akh, it's just a minor thing, really. I took a slight chill, a touch of fever, the sort of thing everyone gets — "

«Except you! My Prince, you're almost never ill! Are you sure — "

«Semyon, yes. Truly. I promise you, all's well. And it may take a bit, but I'll return as soon as I'm able.» His strength was beginning to fade again. Before Semyon could take any fresh alarm, Finist added hastily, «Till then, good Semyon.»

He broke the contact just before it would have slipped away from him, and huddled by the side of the pool for a time, shivering and overwarm in one. «Damn this sickness!»

But now the leshy was at his side, hunkering easily down on its haunches, studying him, though all he could see clearly of it were the bright, glittering, green-glinting eyes. «I heard your words," the being told him. «They are not yours, then?»

«Eh?»

«Those ugly, armored humans who are searching the forest.»

Finist stared blankly at the leshy. Not his men, that was impossible; even had they known where to look for him, they never could have come from Kirtesk so quickly. Then who… ? Ordinary hunters definitely didn't go travelling in armor! A sudden thought struck Finist. I wonder, he mused, just how important are these mysterious hosts of mine?

But maybe the whole thing was mere coincidence. And right now he wasn't up to solving puzzles.

«No," said the prince belatedly. «Those men are certainly not mine.»

The leshy let out a whoop of joy. «Good! Good! Then I may play with them! I shall lead them up and down and about, and they shall find nothing, nothing, till they chance to find their way out of the forest and leave us in peace!»

And with that, the being was gone in a rustle of leaves and a stirring of the wind. Finist sat where he was for a moment, considering soldiers who were about to be lost in pathless woodland for a time, then shook his head. They should count themselves lucky to be getting out of a leshy's domain with nothing worse than a fright! What excuse they might give to whomever had sent them… But it wasn't his affair. Finist sneezed, shivering, and got wearily to his feet. He found his way back to the farm with little trouble—the leshy seemed to have left a faint psychic trail for him—and made his way silently into the house, very glad the family had no noisy dog to sound an alarm. No one stirred as he stole back to his room, and collapsed.

And there Maria found him the next morning, sprawled helplessly across the bed, drained of strength, quite feverish, and completely disgusted with the whole concept of illness.

«And I don't care what you say," Maria stood over Finist, glaring down at him. «Finn, you are staying in bed, and that's the end of it!»

«But—this is ridiculous! I'm quite well, and — " His tirade was interrupted by a sneeze.

«Good health," responded Maria automatically, then gave a sharp little laugh. «So! Quite well, are you?»

«I only — "

«Oh, Finn! You've already made yourself much worse by insisting on getting up the first time! Do you want to give yourself lung disease?»

«Of course not! I only…» Finist sighed. «I just hate feeling so weak.»

«Who wouldn't?» The young woman's voice softened a bit. «All right. I know you're angry at your body for betraying you. But I won't have you doing harm to yourself just because you don't have the common sense to take care of yourself!»

Finist stared at her, astonished, all set to make some properly regal retort. But then he surprised himself by bursting into laughter. «So be it!» he conceded. «You win.»

She nodded in satisfaction, and turned to go. «If you need anything, just call.»

«Ah, wait just a moment. There is one thing. Maria, where am I? Or, rather, where exactly is this farm?»

Her glance was wary. «Some fifty versts or so southeast of Stargorod. Why?»

«Just trying to orient myself.» Fifty versts, eh? A long distance afoot, a short one by wing. That wind really had carried him a long way from Kirtesk!

Finist came back to himself with a start. «Oh, but I'm being selfish. I didn't mean to keep you here. Please, go about your own business. I promise," he added with a little smile, «I'll be good.»

Her answering grin was so unexpectedly sweet and bright with mischief that a startled Finist felt his heart sing in response. Oh, don't be foolish, he told himself, and determinedly shut his eyes, quieted his thoughts, and forced himself back into healing sleep.

At first, Maria admitted to herself, she'd almost been ready to hate him, this stranger who'd rudely thrust himself into the established order of things. But how good it had been to see someone new!

Vasilissa didn't think so. Poor Lissa, so sure that because Finn came out of the forest, he has to be something demonic.

What he was, was plain, no denying it. But for all that plainness, there was a charm to the man. When he wasn't railing at her for keeping him in bed or making him drink his soup, that was. No—she had to admit it—he had a certain charm even then.

If only she knew who he really was. If only she knew—

Oh, this was stupid! Just because the man was polite, and pleasant, and the only one who actually seemed to listen to her, she was acting like some little ninny of a girl. He would be well in no time, and then he'd be on his way again, and that would be the end of that.

Enough of this! Finist scolded himself. Maria was a sweet young woman and a kind nurse, and that was all.

True, they'd found they shared a love of music. True, they'd found they shared a love of the old tales, too. They'd even discovered in each other some of the same wry sense of humor. But Maria had never shown the slightest interest in him as anything other than an invalid. And he had no intention of making a fool of himself. Why, the woman wasn't even pretty!

Not conventionally pretty.

Not anything as blandly dull as pretty…

Nonsense!

Yet there was no denying her eyes were lovely, whether warm with concern or flickering with annoyance as they were right now for refusing to let her hand feed him any more soup. And her lips had such a charming curve to them. Indeed, the longer he gazed at them, the more he found himself wondering just what it would be like to taste their sweetness, to hold that warmly rounded body in his arms…

Hastily he turned away, embarrassed. This was his hostess, and he mustn't even think of abusing her hospitality. Scrambling for something safe to say, he came out with:

«Is that a gusla I see? Do you play?»

«A bit.» Maria raised a wry eyebrow. «Trying to distract me from the soup?»

He shook his head, grinning, and saw her look away as though trying not to laugh. «Very well.» Her voice was studiously level. «I'll try to pick out a tune or two, if you promise to finish the soup on your own.»

«Agreed.»

Maria bent intently over the little gusla, pretending to be very concerned with the exact tuning of its strings. She didn't dare look up at Finn, not just yet. She wasn't quite sure what had happened, or why, but as she'd stood over him, some little devil deep within her had suddenly made her very much aware of him, not as a patient, but as a man, had made her aware of the clean male scent of him, of the lines of that lean, elegant body… Boyar's daughter that she was, she'd never known more than the hastiest, most chaste of male kisses, but she wasn't naive, either. And in that confusing moment of awareness, she'd found herself wondering what it would be like to lie in a man's embrace, in his embrace.

Hot with embarrassment, she hadn't known what to do or say. And he must have been aware of it. Of course he'd been aware. Gentleman that he was, he'd given her the excuse of the gusla to give her time to get herself back under control. Gratefully she strummed the shining metal strings, trying to lose herself in the music—only to realize, horrified, that she was playing a love song.

«I think I hear my sister calling," Maria said hastily, scrambling to her feet. «I'd better go.»

«No, wait!»

«I'm sorry, I'll be back later. But right now, I really must leave!»

Once she was out of the room, Maria stopped, shaking her head ruefully. That had been a truly ridiculous performance. She would go back in there, and this time she would remember that she was his nurse, nothing more than that.

Soon enough the day came when Finist could stand without falling over and walk about the farmyard without panting after every step. He stood soaking up the strength of the warm sunlight, and told himself he had imposed here long enough. Surely he was strong enough by now to leave, strong enough even to fly all that long way back to his own lands.

And yet, the prince realized with a shock, he really didn't want to think of leaving. Bewildered with himself, he found himself picturing a certain sweet, strong, sensible face, brown eyes warm and bright and clever— Oh, come now! he chided himself. I thought you'd gotten over this! She tended you; it's natural to feel warmth towards your nurse. Think only of your people, your royal duties!

But look—there was Maria, going down by herself to the stream, graceful even burdened as she was with the yoke and water buckets, and he couldn't keep his gaze from following her.

Filled water buckets were heavy; she should not have to be carrying them alone. Even Vasilissa—

But Vasilissa, predictably, was having another of her nervous fits, huddling in her room, sure that sorcery surrounded them all. Finist raised a thoughtful brow. At first he had considered her no more than a typical example of too much close aristocratic breeding, her sudden mood shifts—from deepest depression to frenzied bursts of activity‑made all the worse by her father's pampering. But… could she, in her unstable mind, be sensitive to his true magical self? Yes, that was it. Such things had happened before. She was able to vaguely sense Power. Not that there was anything Finist could do about it. And her father and she were both so very sure magic was evil.

Indignant for Maria and for himself, Finist caught up with her as she struggled with the buckets and their yoke. «Here, let me help. That's too heavy for you.»

She shot him a look of insulted pride. «No, it's all right. I can manage.»

But he insisted, and she insisted, and of course, it ended with them spilling the water. Finist reached out hastily to steady the wildly swinging buckets, and somehow found himself holding Maria's hands instead, the two of them staring straight into each other's eyes. For a startled moment they stood like that, linked on more than the merely physical level.

And something deep within Finist said, quite calmly, Of course. She is the one.

But then that amazing moment had passed. Maria pulled her hands free, blushing a bit, steadying the buckets as best she could. Finist, shaken, could only watch her, speechless. And, forced to accept what he'd seen in her eyes, he could have cried aloud for frustration, because he'd seen the dawning of affection, even of something more—for Finn! All for Finn!

But how else could it be? He wasn't Finist to her. Thanks to his disguise-spell, she couldn't even know Finist existed.

Confused, overwhelmed, the prince couldn't think straight. What if he somehow got her to repeat «Finist» after him? That would break the spell and—

And probably frighten her. Her family hated and feared magic; he couldn't bear to see Maria shrinking back from him in terror-Enough. Grimly, Finist forced his wild emotions back under control. «This time," he said shortly, «let me help. That's no work for a lady.» The sight of her alarm at that dangerous word, «lady," brought his frustration blazing out of him as anger. «Yes, of course I know! How could I not know? Every word you speak betrays you, every word your father or sister—oh, yes, your sister. If ever a young woman was out of place away from servants and pampering, it's she! She has only the one servant here, and that's — "

«Stop that!» she snapped. «Do you think I enjoy this?

Do you really think I like being a—a slave? Someone has to do the chores if we're to eat and drink and be sheltered, and who else do you see, eh?»

Abashed, he muttered, «I didn't mean — "

«And Lissa‑Don't you think I've tried and tried and tried to get through to her? Dear God, how I've tried!»

The buckets and yoke slipped, unheeded, to the ground.

«Dear God," said Maria again, very softly. «Finn, you don't understand. You see, Vasilissa was never… strong, but she wasn't always like this. She was in love once; there was to have been a wedding. But then… things changed. Her betrothed believed what was said of us—even without proof, he believed. His family broke the betrothal, and with it, the last of my poor sister's strength. Now all she can see is doom, terror and doom, and I—I don't know what to do to — "

She stopped, biting down on her lip, and Finist, aching, almost took her in his arms. But… they would be Finn's arms. Instead, he echoed softly, «Things changed. Maria, what things? Is there really nothing I can do to help?»

She gave him the faintest wisp of a smile, raising a hand to nervously brush back her hair, stalling, plainly aching to confide, plainly fearing to trust. «If only there were.»

«Maria.» Finist hesitated, suddenly remembering the leshy's talk of armored men in the forest. «Maria, I know your father has some powerful enemy. No, don't flinch. He made that fact very clear the day the thieves attacked him. But you can't believe I'm from that enemy. Oh, you can't!»

«I— No, I can't believe anyone's that good an actor.»

«But you're afraid that I might betray you? I might go running off to said enemy with hopes of reward? No. I am neither as poverty-stricken as I might look nor a betrayer of hospitality.»

Or of you, my heart, said a gentle voice in Finist's mind. But he resolutely shut it away.

Maria sighed. «My father," she began cautiously.

She was interrupted by a sharp voice shouting, «Maria!»

Her father came hurrying up with a hoe still in his hand. «Maria, what do you think you're doing?»

«We need that water back at the house! Now, hurry!» Maria bowed her head in resigned obedience. «Of course, Father.»

The man waited till she was out of earshot, then turned fiercely to Finist. «And what do you think you were doing?»

«Why, helping your daughter with the water buckets!»

«By holding her hands and whispering to her?»

This was a situation the prince certainly had never had to face before. And for a moment he could only stammer, «What in the name of— Good God, man, I'd never harm Maria in any way, I—care for her — "

«Care for her! You! A landless, nameless — "

That was just too much for Finist's patience. «Enough!» he snapped regally. «My lands are far finer than these, my name as high as any! Now stop this nonsense and tell me what really troubles you. You're not really worried that I might be trying to dishonor your daughter. You trust Maria's common sense too much for that! You heard what I was asking her, didn't you?»

The older man's face grew very cold. «Young man, I have offered you my hospitality. Now I must demand that you leave.»

Leave Maria? Leave her to poverty and near-slavery? An angry Finist caught her father's glance, his will, fiercely sending honor at him, and trust, and honesty… realizing suddenly that beneath that cold, wary wall, this man, no less than Maria, ached for the chance to confide. Of course he didn't trust Finist. How could he trust a stranger? But the prince's magical persuasions gently wore away at the wall till all at once the man shuddered and said, very softly:

«It would be good to speak openly again, so good…»

«Speak, then," Finist urged gently. «No harm will come of it.»

«Ahh… You… Finn, you who are more than you seem, know that I too am more. I am‑I was‑Danilo Yaroslavovich, boyar at the royal court at Stargorod, advisor in the prince's Inner Council.»

«So-o! Prince Svyatoslav is your enemy?»

«No, not really. It was Alexei, may Heaven curse him, young, sly, treacherous Alexei…»

And while Finist listened in disbelief, Danilo told of the incredibly fragile claims of treason, of the farce of a trial, of the sentence of death and the imprisonment.

«But you escaped.»

«I escaped," the man echoed flatly. «My poor Lissa still has dreams of that, and wakens screaming. But," he finished bleakly, «here we are, safe at least for now.»

Shaken, pitying, Finist released his psychic hold, saying softly, «Forget this. Forget," and saw the man quietly return to his gardening.

Svyatoslav, mused Finist. He knew that oh-so-suspicious ruler, though they'd never actually met, not with so much forest and distance separating their two realms. But they'd corresponded, as politic princes do. Finist had always known the other prince was a wary sort. But tactful words on parchment hardly told the whole truth. Now, to realize just how unstable, mistrusting a man ruled Stargorod…

It was shocking, genuinely shocking, that a prince of the blood should prove so weak. Worse than weak-willing to believe an unproven tale—a lie—and condemn one of his Inner Circle to death, just like that!

Finist hadn't the slightest doubt that Danilo had been telling the truth; the man couldn't have lied to him, not while under that gentle psychic compunction.

To waste a good, honest, intelligent man—Svyatoslav, you fool!

And what of this boyar Alexei? Finist thought of Maria, worked like some hopeless serf; he thought of fragile‑minded Vasilissa, tormented by fear; he thought of Danilo, living in shame and worry; and his fists clenched. Indeed, what of Alexei, living in his stolen glory, dooming his rival without a qualm, thinking himself safe—

Perhaps someone should open Alexei's eyes for him!

And would you feel this way if it wasn't for Maria? the prince asked himself frankly.

The answer was yes. For royal injustice is the bitterest, crudest of all, since there's no one strong enough to correct it—save another prince.

It shouldn't take that long, now that I can travel by wing. I can meet with Svyatoslav and talk some sense into him, without being away from my own realm more than a few days longer…

He sought out Maria. «I — " No; he certainly couldn't tell her anything of the truth. «Maria," the prince began again lamely, «no matter what's already happened, no matter what else may come to pass, don't lose hope. Things will yet be well for you.»

Her smile was weary as age. «Finn, you're a kind man. I only wish I could believe you.»

That night and the next, Finist secretly tested his magical strength till he was satisfied it had fully returned, till the renewed Power raced wildly through his veins.

He said no good-byes. On the third night, Finist stole silently away to avoid awkward questions. Alone and unobserved in the forest—unobserved by humanity at least— the prince shifted into falcon-form and launched himself into the air. Of course, flight would have been easier by day; flight was always easier when there were the sun-warmed currents of air to ride. But any flight was glory! Finist spiralled up and up on steady wings, crying out his joy, a falcon's sharp cries.

And then, catching the wind under his wings, he soared out into the night towards Stargorod, and justice to come.