The Shining Falcon

Chapter XLI The Binding

Shuddering, Ljuba watched the rusalki take Alexei. The mirror's image was wavering and faint, forest‑magic, as ever, interfering with her own. But she saw… enough.

Not that she would waste sympathy on the madman. He'd been a tool, merely a tool; if he had reached Kirtesk, she would have had to eliminate him herself.

Still, to die like that, at the hands of forest demons…

Ljuba roused herself, angry at her own weakness, and turned her attention grimly back to the hazy, flickering image in the mirror. Green, everywhere she scanned, nothing but a canopy of green…

«Come on," she urged under her breath. «Come on! Show me Maria! Did the creatures slay her, too? Show me…»

Ah, there, the image was clearing—

Clearing to show a hint of green fur, cold, alien eyes— the leshy! With a gasp, Ljuba hastily broke contact, and merely sat where she was for a time, fighting to regain control.

All right. She wouldn't be able to learn any more. But if the lake‑demons slew a grown man, mad or sane, a mere girl couldn't have escaped them. No, Maria was dead, she must be dead. And now Ljuba could turn her full attention to Finist.

She gave him a quick, almost guilty glance and froze, hocked to realize how alarmingly prominent those high cheekbones were becoming in that increasingly gaunt face.

Was he truly going to die… ?

No, no maudlin weaknesses now! Worry only about whether he's going to live long enough to make you Ms wife!

Surely the boyars would be taking up the delicate mental suggestions she'd been planting on just that subject, and coming to see their prince any moment now?

Finist moaned and stirred. His eyes opened, and for a moment they were aware, and staring directly at her, the angry fire in them enough to make her flinch. Almost enough. Right now, his anger was as futile as a child's little rages because, hate her though he might, Ljuba was well aware he just didn't have the strength to threaten her or her plans.

«Give in, cousin," she whispered. «You are under my will now. The potion holds you. You are under my will.»

But: Am I? those raging eyes seemed to say. Oh, my treacherous cousin, am I indeed?

Wavering between sanity and delirium, Finist was dimly aware of Ljuba's plottings.

Ljuba… traitor… I was a fool, a fool! Never should have trusted you, never allowed you so much freedom…

But what good to rage now? Whenever he tried to speak, whenever he tried to resist her, psychic bonds held him fast, body and mind.

She hasn't the magical strength for this, not alone. The potion! Her damnable potion!

It must have been in every sip of water or wine she'd given him. Finist groaned, feeling the fever burning at him, searing every bone. No matter how he tried to resist, the fever-thirst would win in the end, and he'd have to drink… Eventually, it would kill him. But by that point, it would be too late for Kirtesk, because he knew, grimly, that if she ordered him to announce to the boyars that he would wed her, even from his sickbed, for the sake of the succession, the potion's strength would force him to obey.

The soothing, maddening escape of delirium was pulling at him, urging him to simply give in, but Finist fought it with whatever scraps of will he could find. He'd not leave Kirtesk in the hands of a tyrant! And if he couldn't overcome the potion's power over him, perhaps he could, at least, find a way to confuse the issue…

His memories were painfully cloudy, but he recalled something about when he had landed, when Ljuba had called him back into being human… something about a caftan… She had clothed him in one, he was almost sure of it. And it would have been stained by his blood.

Would Ljuba have kept the thing? Probably. After all, she knew as well as he that blood, the very stuff of life, held Power, and the spilled blood of a magician more Power than most.

Of course she's kept it! Ljuba, I do believe you've made a mistake. One that's truly going to amaze you!

With that, the exhausted Finist let himself slide back into unconsciousness once more, his last waking image the so satisfyingly alarmed look on his cousin's face as she stared at his faint but decidedly sardonic smile.

«Boyars. " Ljuba dipped her head to them, politely acknowledging their bows.

«Lady.» Semyon was evidentally acting as their spokesman. «You know why we've come?»

«I do.»

«And… the prince? Is he‑lucid?»

«He knows what's happening, yes.»

They bowed again, and solemnly filed into the bedchamber. Like so many crows at a funeral! thought Finist in dark humor, struggling desperately against fever and the potion's grip. No, boyars, there isn't going to be a funeral! Not yet!

But he couldn't manage to say any of that aloud, and now Semyon was bending over him, eyes sorrowful, to ask:

«My Prince, do you know why we've come?»

Finist vainly fought the psychic bonds holding him, gasping out involuntarily, «For… a wedding.»

«Ah. You do understand the—the need?»

«Succession… Matter of succession…» Damn, he hadn't wanted to say that! But the potion was binding his mind, Ljuba's will was pulling and pulling at him… No, Finist thought savagely. I will not—be your puppet!

«Lady!» Semyon was stepping aside in dismay. «What is it? What's wrong?»

Ljuba dove to Finist's side. He tried to pull away, but she quickly caught his hand, holding it in apparent solicitude. «It's nothing, boyar, nothing—nothing worse than I've already seen, a surge of the fever, that's all. See, he's quieting now.»

But at the same time, she was telling Finist, quickly, coldly, mind-to‑mind, Don't fight me, cousin. It won't do you any good. You can't escape, so just relax, relax and yield to me.

Like Hell I will! Finist managed to retort with such force that he felt Ljuba wince. But his defiance was useless against the fever and the potion and his cousin's will. Horrified, despairing, Finist heard himself calling to Semyon, heard himself saying in a strained, distant voice that didn't sound at all like his own:

«Boyars, I—name my cousin, the—the Lady Ljuba—as my betrothed. We—shall be wed—as soon as it may be arranged. And till the day that I recover, my—wife-to-be shall rule—as Regent. You shall—obey her as—you would me. So be it done!»

There was a collective sigh of relief from the boyars. As one, they bowed deeply, murmuring, «It shall be as you wish, my Prince," and backed away. Exhausted, Finist fell back against the bed cushions, head swimming, longing to let himself simply collapse. But he couldn't give up, not yet! There was a vague memory teasing at the edge of his mind, of his father, his tutor in magic, telling him…

«The Power is in our blood, in our very essence. As long as there is still breath within you, your magic lives.»

And when, a boy drained and weary from his lessons, he'd tried to protest, he had been silenced with a fierce:

«There is no room for weariness in true magic! Your will must always be stronger than your body's weaknesses—or you are no magician!»

But I am, Finist told that stern ghost. He turned his being inward, seeking the heart of his Power, fighting the dizziness that was trying to overwhelm him, desperately summoning up the last shreds of his strength. Heart pounding painfully with the strain, blood roaring in his ears, the prince shouted:

«Boyars, wait!»

Astonished, they stopped, staring at him. Feeling Ljuba frantically trying to silence him, Finist cried, «By all the Powers of Magic, by all the strength of Day and Night and Warm Mother Earth, I swear this vow!» Dead silence fell; even the magicless boyars knew better than to try to interrupt a spell, and Ljuba, for all her fury, wasn't about to risk having unspent Power recoiling on her. Caught in the trance of his own inner Power, Finist continued, blind and deaf and insensible to all but his magic, «By all the force of Life: No woman shall wed me till the spilling of my blood shall be avenged, till she has washed my bloodstained caftan clean of treachery!»

As he felt the hastily fashioned spell come properly to life, locking itself firmly about him, Finist's trance shattered. He fell back into his aching, illness-wracked self, drained, panting, blazing with renewed fever, only now hearing the ghost of his father's final warning:

«But no matter how wondrous your magic may seem, remember this: scorn the physical self too much, weaken your body beyond hope, and Power or no—you die!»

But even now, he still managed to gasp out the shadow of a triumphant laugh. Turning his head to the dazed Ljuba, he added in a savage whisper:

«The caftan must be washed clean. And that, my treacherous cousin, spiller of my blood, you shall never do! Do you hear me, Ljuba? That, you shall never, never do!»

«A temporary setback," the young woman muttered grimly. «Only a temporary setback. The throne will still— Finist!»

But he had already escaped her into exhausted sleep.