The Shining Falcon

Chapter Ill The Wolf

Now, what good is it, thought Finist, to have oh-so-wondrous magical gifts if you can't use them to reshape this unwieldly monster of a throne?

It was a splendid thing up here on its high dais, too rich in history for him to dare any tampering. Cut from the trunk of some enormous dead tree about the time of the Pact, the throne had originally been left as plain wood, polished and covered with intricate carvings symbolizing forest, field and magic. But over the generations, changing tastes had seen it plated with gold, then enamelled, then encrusted with so many gems that it fairly blazed with light.

Unfortunately, the original carvers had had a ridiculous idea of royal grandeur, and the throne was for too wide; it was impossible for Finist to reach both armrests at the same time. The thing was also too deep for him to rest his back against its back without his feet dangling foolishly off the floor. And, thought the prince, it was damnably hard on the royal backside, even with a bulwark of cushions. The only way to get comfortable was to sprawl sideways. And that, Finist conceded with an inner grin, would hardly look regal.

At least his discomfort was merely physical. Finist glanced out at his boyars, those supposed «equals among nobles» who, he knew, actually had a stern pecking order in which status depended on their service to him and their ancestors' service to his ancestors. He bit back an impa-tient little sigh at the sight of them in their overstuffed sobriety sitting in neat rows on the benches lining the audience hall. Custom decreed they attend any meeting other than that of the Inner Council, so here they were, all of them looking bored to the point of yawning, yet none having the nerve or spontaneity to simply beg his pardon and leave. Their dullness was incongruous in that great, grandly ornamented hall: thick stone pillars supported the sweep of its vaulted roof; and ceiling and pillars and walls were rich with color, blazing with paintings of Kirtesk reflected dazzlingly by the polished marble floor.

But even more incongruous in their plain, honest greys and browns were the reasons he sat here—the stream of petitioners, farmers, artisans, common folk, come to him with problems of farms or taxes or inheritances. Suddenly Finist tensed, feeling a faint psychic stirring, a feather's touch brushing his consciousness: Ljuba. His cousin must be watching the proceedings, as she often did, through a magic-treated mirror. It was her right, after all, as a member of the royal family. And even this sometime interest in the outside world, Finist supposed, must be healthier for a young woman than that self‑imposed semiexile of hers spent in what was generally unproductive arcane study.

Not that she would be finding much of interest in peasant affairs. Elegant enough for you? Finist asked her silently, sarcastically, though of course, she couldn't hear him.

Forget Ljuba. Now, to business.

In the slow hours that followed, Finist counselled where he could, occasionally calling on this or that boyar for advice, making those decisions he thought just, using his magic to determine honesty or falsehood—not that there were many who'd dare lie to a magician—and wondered, deep within him, if the line of supplicants would never end. Thank Heaven, this day came only once a month!

He could, of course, have simply declared the audience at an end at his whim. But his father had never done such a thing, not when there might be someone genuinely in need of his help, and neither, Finist conceded reluctantly, would he.

At last the final group of petitioners approached the throne. Finist leaned forward, studying them. No farmers, these straight-backed, leather‑clad men. Woodsmen, he guessed, fearless souls from one of the small villages that dared nestle within the boundaries of the vast forest which covered much of the land, the forest that was still full of the Old Magic. Finist raised an eyebrow. It must be some great problem indeed to bring such proud, self-sufficient folk all the way to his court.

But right now they didn't look particularly proud, shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes never quite meeting his gaze.

«Well?» prodded Finist at last. «What would you? Come, speak.»

That merited him a quick, wary glance from the lean, middle-aged man who seemed the group's leader. And Finist drew a startled gasp at the sorrow he glimpsed in those weary eyes.

«Come," the prince repeated, more gently. «Speak.»

The weatherbeaten face reddened. «It's just…» He glanced pointedly at the bored boyars. «Eh, what it is, is that we need your magic, my prince. But we… uh…»

«You'd just as soon not have everyone here knowing your troubles," Finist concluded. Intrigued, the prince studied the man for a silent moment, wondering… Royalty always has its enemies; he wasn't so naive as to believe he mightn't have some secret foes. Yet he sensed no treachery in the man, only that awkward, painful sorrow. Eyes half‑closed, arm outstretched, Finist quested with his mind for the aura of hidden weaponry on the group, hunting for the cold, cruel tang which meant iron—that metal most deadly to magic and magicians—for any other concealed weapons… Nothing.

«So be it.» Finist got to his feet in a swirl of robes, moving smoothly down the dais' narrow stairway, ignoring the stirrings of surprise from his boyars. «The rest of you, wait here. You» — pointing at the sad-eyed man—

«come with me.»

The Ruby Chamber was a much smaller audience chamber, less formal despite the elegance of silken rugs imported from the East and the glowing red walls delicately ornamented in patterns of gold. It was one of Finist's favorite meeting rooms, since it was one of the few to boast the luxury of a wide window, reminding him comfortably of the sky's freedom just outside. It also had, much to his relief, no cumbersome throne, only a relatively simple chair of polished wood thickly padded with red brocade and raised on only a few token steps. Here he sat, watching the woodsman's silent unease.

«Now," Finist said firmly when it seemed the silence would go on forever. «Your story. First, you are…»

«Feodor, my Prince, son of Igor.»

«So. Talk to me, Feodor Igorovich.»

«I—it's about a wolf," the man began.

«A wolf. You'd hardly be wasting my time about some animal you could hunt yourself, now, would you? What's the matter, then? Is this wolf rabid?»

«No, no, nothing like that.» Feodor's voice shook. «The—the wolf is—one of us. Stefan. Stefan has—has become a wolf.» At Finist's startled, skeptical stare, he added fiercely, «It's true! I— Stefan's my son! I know him! You have to help him, my Prince, you must!»

«Slowly, slowly!» Finist wasn't quite so willing to believe, not so quickly. «How could such a transformation have come about? Was your son playing with dangerous secrets?»

«My God, no! Stefan would never— He's a good boy, my Prince, he'd never think of dabbling in‑in— He wouldn't!»

«Softly, now. Tell me exactly what happened.»

Feodor sighed. «All I know for certain is that one night Stefan disappeared. We hunted for him all the next day, but couldn't find a trace of him. The next night…» The man swallowed convulsively. «The next night the wolf appeared: Stefan. Every night since then, he's prowled the village. He—hasn't hurt anyone yet, or even taken any livestock; he only roams around the village palisade. But— but surely it's only a matter of time before he—before he — " Feodor choked, and couldn't go on.

«Before he forgets he's human," Finist said softly.

It was possible, it was very possible.

He shook his head impatiently. «Akh, Feodor, there doesn't have to be anything magical about this! Tell me, does Stefan have himself a girl?»

The peasant hesitated. «Marfa, Boris' daughter. They'd had a fight, Stefan and Marfa; that's why he ran off. But — "

«There you are! Stefan might even have run here, to Kirtesk. I'll have my guards — "

«No!» Feodor, in his distress, didn't even notice he'd interrupted his prince. «The wolf! What about the wolf?»

«It's probably only a youngling cast out from its pack.»

«No! I know my son! I saw the wolf! Those aren't the eyes of a beast, they're the eyes of my son! Please, you're the only one who can help him. I—I'll do whatever you command. Only please, help my son!»

Uneasy, Finist stepped down from his chair, moving to stare thoughtfully out the window. Could it be? There was magic enough in the forest, Heaven knew, strange beings and Power older than anything he wielded.

No, this was ridiculous! It was probably just as he'd said, a lovers' quarrel—

But what if it wasn't? What if, somehow, a young man had been bound into beast form, trapped till he came to forget his very humanity? No magician could be free of that nightmare…

«Yes," Finist said. «If it lies within my power, I will help.»

Of course, Finist had no need to waste time in riding all that way back with Feodor and the others. He had a much swifter means of travel, and so that night a silvery falcon sped towards the forest and the village within it.

Village? thought Finist. It was little more than a few huts sheltered within a palisade of wooden stakes, there in the middle of a clearing. Still, the prince conceded, these folk were his subjects, as surely as any of the nobility.

He stood alone in the growing darkness outside the palisade, sniffing woodsmoke from the village, hearing the rustlings of the forest, waiting, shivering a bit in the chill from the cooling earth, rather wishing he'd brought more with him than the one lightweight, silken caftan. But then, there was a limit to the bulk his talons could carry easily. He'd refused to allow the villagers to wait out here with him, fearing that if the wolf really was Stefan, the shock of capture might well drive an already shaken human mind past recovery. But I wish I'd at least had the sense to borrow a warm cloak.

The wolf appeared suddenly, materializing out of the forest and padding silently towards the village palisade, for the moment unaware of him. An adolescent wolf, this, still too long of limb, lanky, but surely no more than a lonely, curious, perfectly ordinary wolf.

Or was it? Finist stirred slightly, and the animal started, staring at him. For an instant, the prince saw something glint strangely in those greenish eyes; for an instant he wondered uneasily if this mightn't be a rabid beast after all, and him standing there without a weapon to hand, his magic not being of the dramatic, fireball-hurling sort.

He'd risk it. But if the wolf charges me, Finist thought with a flash of wry humor, he's going to see the fastest avion transformation in royal history!

Warily, the prince let down his mental guards, sending out a careful, wordless query… brushing the other mind, the lupine mind… No; he'd felt the animal thoughts of wolves before, the basic instincts for food and pack, but there were no such thoughts here, only a half-formed vagueness, and behind it the hint of some lost, frightened consciousness…

Finist hastily drew his senses back into himself lest he too get snared by vagueness. «So-o…» he breathed. «Feodor was right. You are Stefan, aren't you? I wonder who transformed you, and how.»

The wolf froze at the first sound of his voice, ears up, and stared at him intently.

«No," the prince continued softly, «the problem is that your untrained mind doesn't know how to deal with the change. Humanity is sliding away from you. And how am I to draw you back?»

The wolf couldn't hold his gaze any longer. With a wor-ried little whine it began pacing back and forth, giving him quick, nervous glances.

«If I'm to do you any good, I must lay hands on you," Finist told it, taking a slow, cautious step forward. «But will you let me approach you, Stefan?»

He continued his patient, wary dance, now a step forward, now a step back, being always careful never to come between the uneasy creature and the safety of the forest, keeping up a steady, soothing croon as though this really was no more than some frightened beast. Finist knew he didn't dare move any faster: push the confused creature that was wolf-Stefan too hard, and he'd be sure to either run off or attack in sheer panic.

«So, and so… Another few steps and I'll be at your side, and maybe you'll actually allow me to touch you, and I'll be able to — "

«Stefan!»

A small, feminine form came hurtling out of the forest towards the wolf. This had to be Marfa, hiding in wait for her transformed lover, meaning only good—but Stefan didn't know her, not as he was. All he knew was that this screaming human was cutting off his escape. «No!» Finist shouted. «Get away!» Too late—the wolf was springing. So Finist sprang first, catching the thin grey form in mid‑leap, hurling them both to the ground, the wolf snarling like a true wild thing, Finist trying frantically to pin the lithe body writhing and snapping in his grip, trying to hold those powerful jaws together. God, the strength of the thing!

And then, in the middle of the struggle, Finist, hot animal breath in his face, glanced wildly up to catch the merest glimpse of a fine-boned, so familiar face, long hair shining like burnished gold even in the dim light: Ljuba. Ljuba, here? Impossible; she hated the forest, fearing its wild magic—besides, if she were here, she'd be helping him, wouldn't she? Aie, watching his council meetings was one thing, she had a perfect right to do that, royal lady that she was, but spying on him was something else entirely! Angry, Finist glanced up again and saw nothing but forest, and nearly got himself raked by the frantic wolfs claws for that moment of inattention. Panting, he fought till he'd managed to lock his legs about the straining beast. Slowly, painfully, he forced the lupine head about, forced the wild eyes to meet his gaze.

«Stefan. You are Stefan. I call you, I — "

He broke off with a gasp as fangs snapped and nearly closed on his arm. Finist caught the wolf in a fiercer grip, feeling Power blaze up within him, a fire in the blood, and began again, calling Stefan, coaxing, summoning, dragging the lost essence that was Stefan back and back and back…

And suddenly the lithe grey form went limp and submissive in his arms, gazing pleadingly up at him with human eyes.

«Stefan," murmured Finist, releasing his grip gladly, the fire fading within him. «Now‑let's see how to—break the charm… Get you back into your rightful shape.»

But there was a flicker of movement: Marfa, come to take the wolfs head in her arms, sobbing over him with adolescent fervor—or guilt? Finist studied her a moment, eyes widening in sudden comprehension.

«Marfa," he said sternly, and she turned to him, plainly terrified of his magic, his royalty, but determined to be brave: a small, pretty, defiant thing. The desperation in that slight frame touched Finist, and he sighed. «Why, Marfa? Why do this thing?»

«I—I didn't — "

«Don't lie. Not to me. Why did you do it? Do you hate Stefan so very much?»

«I don't hate him!» It was an anguished wail. «I never—Oh, Stefan! Stefan, forgive me! I—I was so angry, I didn't think; we'd sworn to be true to each other, and then Anna told me, that night the two of you had—had— How could you?»

Wolf-Stefan gave a little whine, seeming to shrink into himself, abashed, eyes fixed on her face, pleading, Forgive-, please, forgive!

Marfa hesitated. Then, with a little sob, she let her hand fall to his head, stroking the rough grey fur.

«I never expected it to work. Not really.» Her murmur was meant more for Stefan than Finist. «It was only an old story, you know the one, about how to make the wolf‑charm. Nobody really believes it.» She stopped short, biting her lip. «But I thought, what if? It probably wouldn't work, but if it did, it‑it wouldn't last, it would just change you long enough to—to teach you a lesson. Stefan, I didn't know! I didn't know you—you'd have to stay a wolf forever!»

Finist sat back with a sigh, rubbing tired muscles. «He doesn't.»

Human and lupine heads shot up to stare at him, eyes fierce with hope. «How… ?» Marfa began.

«You still have this, ah, wolf‑charm, I take it?»

She nodded, hand going to her bodice. «I've been carrying it with me to keep it safe. I was afraid if I didn't, something might happen to it and hurt Stefan. I mean, hurt him worse than—than — "

«Never mind that. First, girl, go back into the village and get Stefan something to wear. Go on! With any luck at all, he'll be himself again soon enough. And I doubt he'll want to be caught walking around stark naked.»

«Oh!»

Reddening, she went. Finist glanced down at Stefan, who was staring after her with longing eyes. Well, now, he really does love her! thought Finist, surprised at how pleased the thought made him.

And Marfa came scurrying out again, a bundle of clothing clutched in her arms.

After that, it was a simple matter of lighting a small fire with a flash of will and having Marfa cast her homemade charm—an ugly little thing of scraps of fur and knotted twine‑into the heart of it. These odd little backwoods spells did tend to work, there being enough Power in the forest to fuel them, but they also tended to be ridiculously easy to break.

The charm burned to ash quickly enough. And with its destruction, wolf melted smoothly back into man‑into boy, rather: a lanky, yellow-haired, green-eyed youngster who hastily scrambled into his clothes while Marfa modestly hid her eyes. Then, their prince quite forgotten, the two young lovers rushed into each other's arms, stammering apologies and declarations of undying love. Finist got slowly to his feet, watching with wry humor and, much to his amazement, a touch of rueful envy. What must it be like to be the recipient of such blazing love? What must it be like to feel such love? Princes seldom found out…

Eh, no self-pity. In a short while the two youngsters would be remembering his presence. And the villagers, who must surely be spying through the cracks in the palisade, would get over their awe and come rushing out. Finist decided he just wasn't up to their idea of celebration, which would, he knew, include a good deal of heavy drinking.

Magicians, for obvious reasons, didn't dare risk the loss of control found in drink.

But he wasn't quite finished here. Finist paused, considering. Marfa had plainly gone through enough mental anguish to make any punishment from him mere anticlimax. But still:

«Marfa.» He tried again: «Marfa!»

This time the girl heard him, pulling hastily free of Stefan's embrace and whirling about to face the prince, face reddening anew. «Oh. My‑my Prince?»

«Marfa, do you realize how narrow an escape this was? Had I not arrived when I did, it might have been too late for Stefan. There might not have been a chance to save his human mind. Do you understand what that means?»

To judge from her stricken face, she did. Finist continued relentlessly, «He would have been animal, Marfa, no more than a beast for the rest of his days. Now, my dear, you're not going to experiment with any more of the old tales, are you?»

«N-no, my Prince.» It was a very meek reply.

«And neither you nor any others of the village are going to ever try to play with Powers they really don't understand, are they?»

Both youngsters winced at the coldness in his voice.

«No, my Prince.»

«Good!»

With that, Finist raised his arms to begin the shift to falcon-form, hearing Marfa and Stefan hastily stammering their belated thanks to him as they realized he meant to leave.

But just as he'd gathered his will together, Finist felt the faintest psychic echoes, barely enough to catch his attention, but quite recognizable. Ljuba! Then he had glimpsed her here, spying on him! Anger rippling through him, the prince soared up and out, maneuvering on bright wings through the maze of night-blackened trees, warily, determinedly, following his cousin's trail.

That she fully meant for him to follow her, he hadn't the slightest doubt.

Ljuba stood in shadow, shivering in the night, wishing she had something more than the long veiling of her loose hair to shield her. Damn! She should have thought to carry some sort of clothing with her, as Finist did. But she didn't believe her crow's claws up to the task, and besides, she'd had a lovely, seductive picture of herself in the moonlight, a golden lure to snare her cousin. He'd be tired, and triumphant, and angry at her, a mix of emotions to guarantee his resistance to her would be at its lowest… If she'd been foolish enough to try to snare him right away with one of her potions, he would certainly have detected it. But trap him once with the lure of her body alone, and the next time they met, he'd hardly have potions on his mind.

Yes, but how attractive could gooseflesh be? Or‑dammit‑insect bites? And the forest… just didn't want her here.

It never did.

Whenever she was forced to enter it to gather herbs vital to her potions, she could sense the hostility of the Old Magic, that raw Power that was the forest, frighteningly unpredictable, terrifyingly uncontrollable, to her and the ordered, civilized, scroll-reading magic she represented. Now Ljuba felt its presence all around her, like some great, dangerous beast that knew she feared it. Surrounded by gnarled, ancient trees, vague black shapes heavy with slow age, she had to make a conscious effort not to sag beneath the weight of a night that had grown far darker than a clear, moonlit night had any right to be.

The things I do for Power, she tried to jest, struggling to hold fast to her rapidly diminishing confidence.

It didn't help to recall that Finist seemed to get along perfectly well with the Old Magic. To him, this forest was a friendly place, more full of mischief than malice, and he'd go wandering in it whenever time permitted. Keeping the Pact, he called it. Assuming, Ljuba thought, that the Pact their ancestors were said to have made was anything but myth.

No denying, though, that Finist did have a way with the devils living here that was so comfortable it verged on the pagan. He insisted that they weren't devils at all, merely forest entities of various magical sorts. Ljuba knew better. Her spells didn't work in this barbaric place, their small Power crushed by the force of Old Magic; her mirrors could sooner show her what was happening in faraway Stargorod than here! If ever she came to power, Ljuba told herself bitterly, she'd see all these hostile, pagan trees cut down.

The forest knew it. Overwhelmed by its menace, she'd made a damnably stupid mistake and shouted out that threat the last time she'd come here to gather her herbs…

A bush rustled. Ljuba started, biting back a gasp—

Oh, fool! It was Finist, only Finist, following the trail she'd left him. A glint of silvery feathers, a swirling shape, and he stood before her, eyes angry. Ljuba forced a smile.

«Cousin. I did hope you'd find me.»

He wasn't wasting any time on formality. «Just what game do you think you're playing? What are you doing here?»

«Why, waiting for you!»

«Spying on me, you mean. Why?»

Ljuba hesitated. «I was puzzled," she said after a moment, and just then genuine bewilderment was in her voice. «Finist, why do you bother?»

«Eh?»

«These are only woodsfolk, peasants, nothing! Why do you bother with them?»

He raised a brow. «These are my people, cousin. They trust me. How can I betray that trust?»

«Oh, nonsense! That can't be the whole story!»

A hint of anger flickered in his eyes. «Have you never thought I might have pitied them?»

«Finist, please. I'm not one of your simple peasants.»

«You want a materialistic answer, do you? All right, here: the peasants produce the land's food, its resources. Take care of them, they take care of you, and the land flourishes. Plain enough?»

She still didn't see it. After all, if peasants refused to produce, they were traitors and should be punished. But there was still that anger hot in his eyes, and Ljuba, who knew when to yield a point, only sighed in wonderfully feigned innocence. «Do you know, no one ever bothered explaining things like that to me?» She gave a fetching little shiver. «The night's so chill. And‑dark. I don't see how you can enjoy this forest, even by day! It's so… unfriendly.»

«Not to me. Cousin, enough. Why were you spying on me? And why, in Heaven's name, didn't you help me with that wolf?» He paused, eyeing her speculatively. «Hoping to see me die, cousin?»

«Good God, no!» That was heartfelt enough. «Don't be so suspicious. I could see you weren't in any real danger. Besides…» Ljuba smiled faintly. «I could hardly have displayed myself to the whole village like this, could I?»

She took a smooth step out of shadow, and was gratified to hear Finist's involuntary gasp at his first clear sight of her, those amber eyes widening, drinking in the vision of golden woman veiled in golden hair…

Then his eyes shifted resolutely to her face. «A bit chilly for this, isn't it?» Finist asked dryly.

«Maybe we aren't all so clever in carrying clothes in flight!» she snapped before she could stop herself.

After all, it was difficult to be seductive when she was still shivering, and itching, and scratched in a dozen tender places. And when Ljuba tried to take a second step forward, she trod right on a rock that seemed knife-edged, and fell forward with a little shriek.

Finist caught her. Ljuba stole a quick, wary look up at him and saw nothing in his eyes but concern… Maybe this was going to work after all! That cursed rock had hurt her enough to bring tears to her eyes, and now Ljuba let herself go and sobbed.

What man could have resisted? She felt Finist's arms close about her, and buried her face against his chest, very well aware that only one thin layer of silk separated them.

«Here.» Finist's voice was husky. «Let me see if you've cut your foot.»

«No, no, I only bruised it.» Ljuba looked up at him, eyes still bright with tears. «Finist, oh, Finist, I never dreamed, I never dared hope…»

«I… This isn't… We shouldn't…«He made one valiant, gallant attempt to free himself, but Ljuba's arms were about his neck, her lips were meeting his. He turned away, but only to bury his face in the warm mass of her hair, and Ljuba smiled, feeling his control slipping, feeling the disciplined, magical mind drowning beneath the flood of the body's demands. Right now he was helpless, helpless, and with a small, fierce cry, he surrendered and bore her to the ground. Ljuba stared up at the hostile forest with wild, triumphant eyes, thinking defiantly, You see? He's mine!

And then she forgot all about clear thought for a time.