The Shining Falcon

Chapter XXXIX The Heir Apparent

«Maria!»

She was in peril, he knew it! But his body wouldn't obey him! He couldn't move, couldn't go to her, couldn't even remember any magic that might help her, he couldn't do anything at all but suffer this dreadful certainty…

«My Prince…»

The words seemed to be coming from a hundred versts away.

«My Prince, can you hear me?»

He knew that voice… Dimly, he seemed to realize that he knew that voice… And Finist began to fight his way up through layer after layer of fever-haze.

Semyon sat anxiously by the royal bedside, watching his prince struggle against who knew what invisible terrors.

«My Prince," he repeated. «Can you hear me? Do you recognize me?»

The amber eyes opened the barest of cracks, looking up at him vaguely. But then their vacant gaze sharpened. «Semyon.»

It had been the barest whisper of sound, but the old boyar felt a rush of relief sweep through him. Akh, my poor Prince! At least the fever hasn't damaged your mind! «What is it?» he asked gently. «Something's been disturbing you. What is it?»

Finist seemed to be struggling against invisible bonds, straining to speak, his fever-brightened eyes frantic. «I… can't…» «Boyar!»

Semyon started, and turned guiltily to face the angry Ljuba. «Lady, I — "

«I allowed you in here only under the agreement that you'd do nothing to disturb my cousin's rest! And yet here you are, causing him such distress— Hush, now, cousin," she added in a sudden croon. «Rest, my dear. No, no, don't try to talk! Just rest. Drink this… that's right… and rest.»

To Semyon's bewildered eyes, it seemed almost as though Finist had been fighting Ljuba. But that had been the fever, surely, for now he was sinking into sleep. Sleep, the boyar told himself firmly, was what the poor youngster needed the most. He hesitated despite Ljuba's patent impatience, looking down at the drawn, flushed face, heart aching with mingled pity and fear, then reached out an impulsive hand to gently smooth strands of shining hair back from Finist's face.

«Boyar. " It was a warning, and Semyon sighed.

«Yes, lady. I'm leaving now.» But he stopped, and turned to her. «Lady, this may seem to be in dubious taste. But… that terrible fever… He… seems to be weakening with every day, and…» Semyon bit his lip, hating what he must say. «For the sake of the land, the council must know this: Is our Prince going to recover?»

«Am I God, that I should know that?» she snapped. «Go away, old man! I'm doing all I can!»

«Lady, please. We must know. Will Finist recover?»

To his shock, he saw genuine fear flicker in Ljuba's eyes. «I… don't know," she whispered. «I've never seen a fever burn like this. I truly don't know.»

The other boyars had been waiting for him. Now, as Semyon wearily entered the Ruby Chamber, they all sprang to their feet, assaulting him with questions:

«Did you see him?»

«Did he know you?»

«What about the fever? Is his fever any lower?»

«Akh, boyars, please.» Semyon sank to a chair, feeling very old. «Give me a chance.»

There was silence in the chamber for a time. And then one voice asked quietly, «Is our Prince going to die?»

«I pray to God he is not.»

«But you don't know.»

«I— No.» Semyon took a deep breath. «Boyars, I never thought to have to say this. I am old, our Prince is young, I never thought I… might outlive him, but… The time has come to discuss the problem of the succession.»

Stunned silence fell once more, at least for a moment. Then Semyon sat back and listened for a time to the storm of debate raging all about him. Prim-faced boyar Andrei, elegant in dull red velvet‑matching the decor, thought Semyon—seemed to be winning.

«But we can't go against the proper order of things!» he was saying. «If Prince Finist dies without an heir— which God forbid, of course—then his uncle inherits the throne.»

«Prince Vasili," muttered someone from the rear of the room, and Andrei blinked and continued, «Why, naturally, Prince Vasili!»

«Monk Vasili, you mean.»

«Well, yes, he may have taken monastic orders, that's true enough, but he's a good, kind, gentle man, and I'm sure — "

«That his reign would be a disaster," finished Semyon, waving to silence Andrei's reply. «Boyars, let us face facts. Good, kind, gentle men tend to make terrible rulers. There are enough historical examples to prove that point! Granted, Vasili was trained in the proper princely studies, but said training was a long time ago. He's been in that monastery, shielded from secular life, for almost as many years as our Prince has been alive.» Semyon paused, letting his words sink in. «Do we really want to put an unworldly monk on the throne of Kirtesk?»

«But it's the proper order!» sputtered Andrei.

«My dear boyar, we're talking about the survival of our city, not the etiquette of some royal dance!»

There were scattered ripples of laughter at that, quickly stifled. «All right," said the blunt boyar Mikhail, grizzled of hair and beard, humorless of mind. «If not Prince Vasili, who?»

«Prince Finist's first cousin, then," exclaimed the indignant Andrei. «Prince Demyan is, legally, next in the succession.»

«Prince Demyan," someone drawled, «is also regrettably weak of wits, and growing ever weaker. And his son can't be anywhere near of age yet.»

«He's not.» Mikhail's voice was sharp. «I'm sure none of us want to place a minor on the throne.»

«Then—then…» stammered Andrei, «what about Princess Marya of Astyan? She is next in line.»

«I'm afraid not," Semyon paused. «While the young woman seems to be proving a most able ruler of her, own lands, I'm afraid she also seems to be quite deficient in one royal requirement: she has no magic.» He glanced about at the dismayed faces. «Come, boyars, we're wasting time. There's only one possible alternative. Marriage.»

«To his cousin Ljuba, you mean," said Mikhail. «I thought you disliked the lady, Semyon.»

«My personal likes or dislikes have nothing to do with this," Semyon said flatly, annoyed at Mikhail's unexpected touch of malice. «I have always served the crown faithfully, and will continue to serve the crown.»

«No matter who's wearing it, eh?»

«Akh, Mikhail, what would you have me say? Ljuba is capable enough, and intelligent. And unlike Princess Marya, she does have something of the Power.» He looked sharply about the room. «Come, come, this won't be the first time we've thought her the most suitable mate for our Prince!» Forgive me, he said silently to the girl he'd never met, to Maria Danilovna, forgive me, but we haven't time to consider love, not now. «Well, boyars? What do you say?»

Andrei shrugged. «God knows someone's going to have to take over the reins of power.»

Mikhail grunted. «And better her than that—what did you call him, Semyon? — that unworldly monk. So. I'm sure the lady in question will raise no objections. Let us only pray our Prince lives long enough to wed her!»

«Let us only pray our Prince lives!» corrected Semyon, and everybody obediently bowed their heads and murmured «Amen» to that. He stood apart as the other boyars left, stood staring blindly out the window at the midnight sky, all at once remembering his wife, dead these many years, thinking of the son he'd never had, thinking of Finist… «Live!» he whispered urgently. «Oh, Finist, live!»