The Shining Falcon

Chapter XIX Spellbound

Finist crouched in shadow in Stargorod, panting gape-beaked as a falcon pants, trying to catch his breath. The moon was nearly full this night, and it had glinted off his feathers most dramatically as he'd soared over the walls of the vast, sleeping city, nearly getting him speared by some overzealous guards before he'd finally managed to elude them and find a safe rooftop landing.

They really are alert against magic, aren't they? I wonder what set them off like this.

If it was Svyatoslav's own nervousness, he might do better not to approach the man right away. But he did have a second plan…

After a time, Finist recovered his breath, ruffling his feathers back into place.

Now, let me see about finding a certain treacherous young boyar.

He had a fairly good idea of the location of Danilo's estate, thanks to what the man had told him, and to the scattered bits of thoughts and words and dreams which chanced to drift by the prince when he opened his perceptions to them. He took flight in a long, silent glide, enjoying the feel of cool night winds sleek under his wings, and circled the city—wary of the guards—till he was sure of his location. Finist entered Danilo's home as falcon, and stood at last by the sleeping Alexei's bedside as man, looking thoughtfully down at the elegant, youthful face, frown‑ing a bit as he noted the weak mouth and the dark stains of strain under the boyar's eyes.

So you haven't been exactly enjoying your new status, have you?

But this was no place to linger. Alexei's manservant was sleeping on a pallet at the boyar's feet, and if that servant chanced to wake while Finist was defenseless in the middle of his magic, it would almost certainly be the end of everything.

Alexei isn't going to voluntarily confess his wrongs. Not without a bit of… prodding.

So Finist stood motionless at Alexei's side, gradually slowing his rate of breathing to match that of the young boyar, Finist's heartbeat to the boyar's heartbeat… gradually shutting out everything about him till only Alexei remained, only Alexei… till the patterns of the man's thoughts lay clear before him. Alexei's surface thoughts only, of course; not even for Maria's sake was Finist going to overcome his training in magical decency and invade another's inner self. But surface thoughts were enough. And Finist saw just what he'd expected to see: a narrow, clever mind, full of pride, envy, ambition and weakness, and never a true understanding of morality. And so, gently, Finist sent a dream to him:

Danilo stood before him, boyar Danilo, clad in spotless white. «You betrayed me!» the dream‑voice cried. «You would have had me slain!»

«Had to…» Alexei muttered in his sleep. «You stood in my way… Always in my way… Had to do something…»

«You would have had me slain!» the fierce voice repeated. ' 'You destroyed me, forced me and mine into exile, disgrace, and all for your own advancement!»

«Had to…» Alexei insisted. «Had to remove you…»

«And are you proud of what you've done? Traitor, do you think yourself safe from me? Do you think yourself safe from justice ?''

«Go away," moaned Alexei. «Go away…»

«Sleep no more, ambitious fool! Hear me: I shall haunt

you, night by night, I shall haunt you till you confess you crime. Traitor, sleep no more!»

Finist had pushed too hard. Alexei awoke with a wild cry, so suddenly he nearly caught the prince. But by the time the servant had managed to spring to his feet, Finist was gone, and all the two alarmed men saw were shadows; all they heard were the sounds of wings.

A good beginning, thought Finist, glancing back.

Of course, any boyar cold-blooded enough to let an innocent man die for his own gain wasn't going to be broken by one little foul dream. Nor had Finist expected it.

But there just might be a chance of wearing Alexei down.

There wasn't. On his second midnight visit, Finist found the boyar's room barred both by holy relics—which might have stopped some evil spirit, but not a mortal magician— and, more alarmingly, by armed guards.

Alexei, it seemed, was no fool.

And I don't have the time to wait him out. Bah, I should have known this wouldn't work. I'll have to try a different approach.

Oh, indeed. But the only other approach was one with which he wasn't too happy; he didn't care for the fact that Svyatoslav's fear of magic had spread all over Stargorod. Still, like it or not, he was going to have to pay that suspicious prince a visit after all.

With a sigh that sounded odd, coming from a falcon, Finist took flight once more, headed towards the many‑domed royal palace, the gold paint ornamenting the roof glowing palely in the moonlight, a background against which the falcon's silvery feathers disappeared nicely.

The window of Svyatoslav's bedchamber was far too narrow for any human to enter, but a falcon could and did squirm through. Shifting silently to man, shivering in the sudden chill of being abruptly featherless, Finist glanced quickly around the dim, starkly furnished room, ready to take off again if someone spotted him. But there was no one here save Svyatoslav, not a sound save the man's soft breathing. Aside from the great, canopied bed, there was nothing in the room except the ubiquitous clothes chest, the type of thing everyone used, and a few elegant, thick-piled carpets, wonderfully warm to Finist's bare feet. No servants, of course. Anyone as suspicious as Svyatoslav was hardly about to risk having even the most loyal of servants snaring his room with him.

Naturally, there were armed guards just outside; Finist could sense their presences easily. But they were safely on the other side of that old-fashioned doorway, the sort so low they'd have to enter one at a time and bent nearly double. The prince grinned at that, and moved softly through the darkness to the head of the bed, gently pulling aside the curtain.

He was indeed no young man, this Svyatoslav, though not as old as Finist had pictured him. But the harsh lines of suspicion etched into the thin face gave the illusion of greater age, made him look drawn and cruel. For a moment Finist hesitated, uncertain.

But this was neither the time nor the place for delay. Quickly Finist moved to the clothes chest, rummaging about as silently as he could until he found a heavily embroidered cloak that fit him reasonably well. Wrapping its folds about himself for warmth and modesty, the prince drew back a nonthreatening distance from the royal bed and coughed gently till Svyatoslav began to stir.

«Prince Svyatoslav," Finist murmured, then repeated the name more emphatically, and the man sat bolt upright, staring. Before Svyatoslav could even begin his shout of alarm, Finist added hastily, «I'm quite unarmed," and let the cloak fall open to prove it.

Shock does odd things. The first thing Svyatoslav thought to say was an indignant «That's my cloak!»

«Ah, yes. Forgive me.» Finist caught it about himself once more. «The room is rather chilly.»

«But who—how — "

He shot a quick, desperate look towards the door, and Finist hurried to assure him, «No, no, your guards haven't betrayed you! I came in through the window.»

«Do you think me a fool? No man could — "

«I could. As a falcon.»

Dawning comprehension lit Svyatoslav's eyes. «Prince Finist!» he gasped, then gasped again, hastily signing himself, because, of course, the saying of Finist's name aloud finally broke the disguise-spell and rid him of being Finn. «The sorcerer!»

«No, not exactly. Magician, rather.» The prince bowed as formally as he could under the circumstances, clutching the cloak about himself. «Yes, I am Finist, Prince of Kirtesk. But, my word and honor upon it, I'm not here to do you harm, magically or physically.»

«Then why are you here? Why this unorthodox invasion?»

«I'm sorry. But I couldn't exactly have appeared in your audience chamber, now, could I?»

Svyatoslav had the good grace to look abashed. True enough, had Finist contrived to enter there as plain Finn, he would have been dragged off by guards before he'd had a chance to open his mouth. As Finist, he would have been risking his neck, magic or no, because alone, with no retainers, he would almost certainly have ended up either as Svyatoslav's «guest» till some royal ransom had been paid, or‑more likely, judging Svyatoslav's fears—bound to a stake as a sorcerer.

«I concede the point," said Svyatoslav flatly. «But now, I repeat, why are you here?»

Finist drew a wary breath. «There's something I feel we really must discuss. It's about one Danilo Yaroslavovich.»

Svyatoslav tensed at the sound of that dangerous name. But he gestured grimly for Finist to continue. And, doing credit to his royal training, he heard Finist out without once shouting for help or snatching for a weapon or holy item. But it was only too clear that he didn't believe a word Finist said.

There was a moment's chill silence when the prince had finished. And then Svyatoslav asked bluntly, «Why should you care? The man means nothing to you.»

«But justice does. Prince Svyatoslav, boyar Danilo is still loyal to you. He always was loyal. I know it.»

«Through your… magic?» It was delicately said.

«Ah, yes, but surely you can't let the man suffer when there's no proof he — "

«There was proof.» Svyatoslav's voice was ice.

«The documents. But did he write them? Did he actually write them?»

«Of course he did!»

«I wonder…» Finist hesitated, trying his best to be tactful. «Prince Svyatoslav, I can understand your shock and anger at the thought of betrayal — "

«Of treason, dammit!»

«Of treason. But… in all the excitement, perhaps certain paths were left untrodden.»

«Meaning?»

«Your royal scribes must be like mine in that they keep in their records all the court correspondence.»

«Of course they do! What of it?»

«Why, surely there are other letters written by the boyar — "

«There are! But those treasonous documents were written by Danilo! I know his hand! And, yes, I did have them checked against other samples of the man's writing. There could be no mistake!»

Finist sighed. «Forgers?» he suggested gently, and saw by the man's uneasy squirm that Svyatoslav, in his rage, hadn't even considered such a possibility. «Forgers can be remarkably accurate, you know.»

«Out with it, man! What are you saying?»

«Simply this: Prince Svyatoslav, I believe I can prove once and for all who actually wrote those damning documents.»

«By magic.»

«Yes. Harmless magic. I will swear to that on whatever holy items you require. That's right," Finist added wryly, «I really can touch such things; I don't vanish in a cloud of smoke at contact.»

«Of course you don't!» said Svyatoslav so hastily Finist knew he'd been wondering just that. Reddening, the older man snapped, «Come, what are you proposing?»

«Prince Svyatoslav, what I mean to do is cast a compulsion‑charm over the documents.»

«And just what does that mean?»

«Simply that whoever actually penned them will‑must‑come to us. If that someone does turn out to be boyar Danilo— Well, my apologies to you for bothering you, and let justice be done. But if that someone is somebody else…» He let his voice trail off suggestively, and saw a flicker of interest in Svyatoslav's wary eyes. «But I can't act without your permission. Will you grant it?»

«You… will swear this is white magic only?»

«Magic is neither white nor black," said Finist softly. «It's a tool, a gift, no more, no less. I won't swear to a falsehood. But I will swear that I'm using that gift for honor, yes.» When Svyatoslav still hesitated, the prince continued impatiently, «Look you, being who and what we are, we both must be interested in supporting the cause of justice. Will you grant me permission to act?»

«I…» For a moment Svyatoslav seemed to have forgotten all about Finist's presence, his eyes seeing only the past. «Danilo had ever been faithful to me," he said after a moment. «Or so I dared believe. To see him suddenly shown to be false… God! I wanted to kill him with my own hands!» The man stopped, controlling his passion with a visible effort. «But now… if there is any chance at all that I was wrong, that he might be proven innocent…» Passion surged up once more in Svyatoslav's eyes, but this time it was the passion of hope. «So be it!» Quickly he flung a night-robe about himself and sprang from his bed. «Prince Finist, do what you must!»

Once decided, Svyatoslav proved himself a man of no patience at all. Groggy courtiers were roused, yawning, from their beds, blinking in bewilderment at Finist. The royal scribes were found, the treasonous documents brought forth. Finist, hastily clothed in a caftan borrowed from the older prince, bright, tousled hair quickly combed into submission, glanced about at his curious, wondering, sleepy-eyed audience, and gave an inner sigh. He'd really rather not have to perform like some court entertainer. But at least I've got Svyatoslav almost trusting me, for the moment. Let me not waste the chance.

Carefully, he narrowed his perceptions to one of the documents he held in his hand, seeing that parchment, only that parchment… But this wasn't going to be so easy. So many people had handled it, leaving psychic traces of themselves behind to confuse things, like so many loose and trailing threads. There was the matter-of-fact grey that could only belong to one of the royal scribes, there was the wildly swirling rainbow bright with fear and rage that must surely have been left by Svyatoslav himself…

Yes, but there was another, very tenuous psychic thread, barely to be sensed, the same shade, almost exactly, as the ink upon the parchment. Finist smiled to himself and began, gently and very, very carefully, to reel in that fragile, floating thread… He'd hooked his fish, as it were, he could feel it, he could feel someone, somewhere, stirring all unaware of the spell, starting dreamily towards the royal palace… The thread was growing stronger as that someone approached, stronger…

And Finist was back in reality, taking deep, steadying lungfuls of air, wiping damp strands of hair from his face, hearing the murmurings of the courtiers all around him. Ah, and here was his catch, not boyar Danilo, certainly not, but a thin, sly little rat of a man, blinking in bewilderment as the last haze of the compulsion-spell faded from him. This was the forger, Finist hadn't the slightest doubt of it. This was the man who was about to prove Danilo Yaroslavovich innocent of treason beyond any question.

Yes, but if I stay here, Svyatoslav may just think I influenced the man's words in some arcane fashion!

Everyone's attention was on the forger; it was ridiculously easy for Finist to wrap himself in his magic and steal quietly away. He shifted quickly to falcon and perched, unseen and unnoted, in the rafters, watching the commotion below him.

Now the little forger was realizing where he was, and whom he faced. Confused, terrified, he stared at his prince like some mouse petrified before a snake.

«Have you ever seen these documents before?» Svyatoslav's voice was a purr.

«No, I—I haven't.»

«Are you sure?»

«No! I—I mean, yes, I don't—I didn't have anything to do with them! They—they're treasonous!»

Svyatoslav tensed. «And how would you know their contents without having read them? You wrote these documents, confess it!»

«No! I — "

«Confess it!»

The forger panicked completely. «Yes—no! I… yes, I… I wrote them.'' White-faced, he stood waiting for his doom to fall. But Svyatoslav wasn't finished with him.

«For whom? Come, speak! For whom did you write them?»

The miserable man hung his head. «I—I don't know. I mean, I—I never saw his face.»

«Liar!» cried Svyatoslav fiercely. «Guards! Take this fool away and have him put to the question!»

That, of course, meant torture. Finist saw the forger pale, and heard him mutter to himself, «I don't owe him any loyalty.» The little man straightened with a sort of desperate, almost hopeless courage. «My Prince, will you spare me if I confess?»

Svyatoslav paused only a moment, then he nodded. «I will. Speak, and you will not be harmed. Who hired you?» The forger hesitated, licking his lips nervously. Then he burst out: «It was Alexei Sergeovich! Boyar Alexei ordered me to write those documents!»

Sleepy, bewildered, frightened, the dazed young boyar had been virtually dragged before the royal presence. Finist looked at him thoughtfully, wondering, because Alexei already looked lost, drawn and wan, and this was even before he'd heard the charges brought against him. So-o, thought Finist, I wasn't wasting my time in visiting you! You do, indeed, seem to have some manner of conscience, Alexei.

«Alexei Sergeovich," Svyatoslav began, «you come before us accused of perjury and the attempt to see an innocent man slain for your profit. Do you confess your guilt?»

A man's own conscience could be a crueler tormentor than any executioner. Without the weight of his newly realized guilt, Alexei, Finist suspected, might have been smooth-tongued and cunning enough to clear himself. But now, off balance, still confused by his sudden awakening, the young boyar hadn't the slightest chance. Instead of framing some clever, ambiguous reply, Alexei stammered, «No, I—I didn't— Those letters — " He lunged blindly at the cringing forger. «You betrayed me! Damn you — "

«Oh, no, Alexei Sergeovich," said Svyatoslav softly, «I think this time you are the one to be damned.» And as the young man froze, staring, stunned at the realization that he had just admitted his own guilt, the prince continued, voice trembling with rage, «I cannot punish you as I would. What you've done is not, strictly speaking, treason against the crown. But I will not have such—such foulness as you in my lands, either! Alexei Sergeovich, hear my decree:

«Within three days, you must be clear of those lands, alone and friendless. May every man's hand be turned against you! And should you be found within the boundaries of Stargorod once the three days are past, your life shall be the price!»

And so, thought Finist, refusing to feel the slightest pity, farewell, Alexei.

Now came the pardon for Maria's father, that the boyar Danilo Yaroslavovich «be restored, without penalty or fault, to all his former rights, rank and privileges.»

Well and good, thought Finist, that's settled. But he couldn't return to Kirtesk, not yet. There was still one matter to be finished.

And so, when Svyatoslav at last returned, alone, to his royal bedchamber, he found Finist standing there, waiting. But before the younger prince could say anything reassuring, he saw, to his disgust, that Svyatoslav was tensing, going on his guard once more.

«Prince Svyatoslav, please. I'm not here to attack you, or carry you off or steal away your soul! I am here to tell you where to find boyar Danilo. Or were you planning to simply search blindly for the man?»

Svyatoslav, embarrassed, shot him an angry glance. «All right, then, where is he?»

«In the forest, where— Now what is it?» The other's eyes had gone wild with alarm. «Is that it? Are you in league with the forest?»

«What?» Finist suddenly remembered the leshy, and the armored men, the mysterious hunters. «They were your men, then," he murmured; then, seeing Svyatoslav stare, hastily added, «No, I am not in league with the forest, or those who dwell within it. But I do know something about them. And I promise you this, if your men enter the forest in peace, the forest shall not harm them. Now, let me give you proper directions…»

When the messengers of Prince Svyatoslav rode, uneasy, into the forest, they were met by a stranger in an ugly deerskin robe, an amber-eyed stranger who bowed, polite as any wary peasant, and pointed the way to Danilo's farm. Watching those royal messengers ride away, Finist smiled.

Now they can't possibly miss the way. And his smile broadened a bit at me thought of the joy to come to Maria and her family. Soon they would be safe and honored and free.

If only he could be part of that joy…

Oh, nonsense. He had his own life and duties. This was nothing, the settling of a debt, that was all. Love—no, it was just gratitude.

Then why couldn't he believe himself? Confused, Finist searched till he found a small, still forest pool. Quickly the prince focused his will, fighting aside emotion; quickly he made the proper gestures, said the proper words, and watched his reflection mist and fade. The mist began to clear, obedient to his wish, and…

Maria was there before his eyes, Maria and Vasilissa. And he heard, faintly but clearly, Maria's patient, weary voice.

«Lissa, dear, listen to me. I was only gathering forest herbs, not communing with demons!»

«Don't jest!»

«Lissa, it's not evil out there! The forest is really very beautiful and — "

«And filled with pagan rites and sorcerers—ha, yes! Sorcerers like your Finn, appearing out of nowhere, disappearing into nowhere!»

«He wasn't a sorcerer, and you know it. Lissa, he saved our father's life, remember?»

«And what did he take in exchange, eh? Your virtue?»

«Is quite intact," the young woman snapped impatiently. «Finn took nothing from me but gratitude.»

«But where did he go? Answer me that, Maria! If he was so very innocent, why did he disappear as though— yes, as though by magic!»

Maria winced. But she said, calmly enough, «I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable explanation for — "

«Stop it! I don't want to hear about him anymore! He's gone now, Heaven be praised! He's gone, and you're safe, and—and— Pray, Maria! Pray you never see him again! Maria, I love you! I—I don't want to see you doomed!»

«Lissa, really — "

«No! Remember this: magic is evil, evil, Maria! And all who practice it are damned!»

Argue with her, Finist silently urged. Akh, Maria, say something to defend me!

But she said not a word. Finist sighed, and lost his hold on the image. He found himself staring bleakly down at his own reflection once more.

«You fool," he told himself softly, «oh, you fool, to give your heart at last, but to someone who can't ever return your love, someone for whom you and your magic must always be of the Darkness.» Slowly he got to his feet, stretching stiff muscles. «You'll never know this, Maria, but I wish you joy and ever joy.»

With that, the prince resolutely turned his back on his own hope for joy, and began the long flight home.