The Shining Falcon

Chapter Vlll The Lovers

Prince Finist of KIrtesk flew from his cousin's palace, his anger slowly cooling in the night chill. After all, hate the thought though he might, he had to admit that she could never have seduced him, even with those ridiculous candles, if he hadn't consented, somewhere deep within himself.

Akh, Ljuba, what am I to do with you? How lovely if he could merely do as other princes did: marry off an unwanted or dangerous female relation to some foreign potentate, or force her into a convent! But Ljuba had never shown the slightest interest in marrying anyone. And as for a convent— The falcon gave a sharp squawk of laughter at the idea. Even were he sufficiently cold-hearted to attempt it, a magician could hardly be wed or incarcerated against her will! What does she really want of me? That despairing «I love you!» still echoed in his mind. For a moment he wondered uneasily, could it be… ? But he couldn't believe that, not from Ljuba, not from his cousin who'd made it very clear over the years that she'd never loved anyone or anything in her life. If she were some magicless commoner, he could have the truth from her in a moment, read easily from eyes or face. But Ljuba, of course, knew enough to know how to shield her thoughts.

She certainly wasn't just seeking bed-sport. What else could someone who was related to the royal line want, except: power? His wings missed a beat as the realization struck him. And here I thought all this time that she was quite satisfied with whatever she could gain from her studies. Intellectual power. Ljuba had to know she hadn't a hope of inheriting the throne; Finist would never have dared allow her so much freedom otherwise. But could it be she's decided that isn't enough? Maybe she's decided that the path to true power can only lie in becoming the royal mistress. Or—good God, my wife!

Stunned by that, he came to a rough landing on his windowsill, scrambling into the room, transforming from falcon to man.

«My wife? Oh no, Ljuba. That, you'll never be!»

For a long time, Ljuba had huddled motionless in her bed, too dazed, too fearful, to move. But at last she uncurled, stretching stiff muscles, the memory of her desperate cry returning to her: I love you!

Whatever possessed me to say such a ridiculous thing? For no reason she could name, Ljuba felt a little shiver run through her. It isn't true… And yet … Bah, of course it isn't true! No wonder he didn't believe me!

Ljuba got to her feet, moving slowly to the window, half expecting to see the glint of silvery feathers against the night. But of course, by now the sky was quite empty, and she pulled the shutters closed, leaning wearily against them, her body remembering his strength, his unexpected gentleness…

Stop that! He was a man, just another man.

The man she must control. She never, never should have tried those candles. It was too strong, too blatant. He couldn't not have suspected.

Maybe all wasn't lost. There was still the potion. And all she had to do was find a way to introduce it into his bloodstream—

Oh, easily said! She couldn't get near his food or drink, and now she wouldn't even be able to get near him.

Damn him! He'll never trust me again!

Why should that thought hurt so much… ?

Stop it!

Angry at herself, Ljuba slammed a fist against the shutters. Then, grimly, she began to consider what option were left to her: grimly, she began to plan. And after a time, Ljuba began to smile.

Fire beat in his brain, fire raced along every nerve, every sinew. Didn't she know? Didn't she care? His lady, his sweet, sweet lady… Young boyar Erema shivered with delicious memory, thinking of her by candlelight, sleek and soft and golden. He remembered her in his embrace…

«Ljuba…»

They'd been apart for so long, so painfully long. And then she had called him to her side, and he so radiant with joy his head had fairly swum. She'd poured wine for him with her own dear hands. And then, while he drank, she had told him the cruelest of words: that it was done between them—finished. She'd left him for another. Her cousin. Her royal cousin.

Erema groaned, remembering how shamelessly he had begged her, hating himself for this humiliation, yet powerless to stop in the heat of his passion.

Keep away! he had warned himself afterward. Keep your pride.

But he couldn't eat, or sleep, or think of anything but Ljuba. And now at last he had surrendered. He'd abandoned pride and come to her once more, praying for just a crumb of mercy.

«Ljuba…» Erema moaned again, staring pleadingly up at her from where he'd dropped to his knees. «Don't leave me. I—I will die‑Don't leave me…»

Ah, the fire in his brain.' He couldn't think, couldn't move, only hear her speak, each word a separate flame. «Oh, my dear Erema, I don't want to leave. But I must.»

«No!»

«Don't you see? I have no choice. My cousin's magic is far too strong for me. If he summons me, if he makes me his slave, how can I resist?»

The fire, the fire burning at his brain… Somehow Erema managed to gasp, «I will save you!»

«Do you mean that?» Her voice was fierce in its inten-sity. «Erema, you swore once you would do anything I bade. Is that still the truth?»

Frantic with the fire's heat, Erema grabbed the goblet she handed him, gulping down the contents without even tasting them. But the fire burned on, unchecked.

«Yes!» he gasped. «Anything!»

A knife was in his hand, though he couldn't recall how it had gotten there. As he stared down at its keen, strangely darkened blade, he heard Ljuba's voice, sharp as the knife: «Remember!»

Remember what? Had she been talking to him? He wasn't sure…

«Erema! Do what I've told you. Scratch Finist's arm with this blade, and his hold over me will be broken. Remember, it must seem an accident! And do no more than scratch him.»

She might have said more, but now Erema found he couldn't seem to hear her. The fire was all around, the fire… He nodded obediently, but all he could see was the knife in his hand. And all he could remember was the name of Finist.

Finist, his rival. His foe.