The Shining Falcon

Chapter IX The Accident

He must keep the knife hidden. That much he knew. No one must see it, not till he was near the prince. And then, and then… Erema laughed softly to himself, pleased with his cunning. Why, already he'd made his way through the palace unchallenged, already he'd learned that Finist stood alone and unguarded up on a rampart!

Just for a moment, the fire in his mind seemed to fade; for a moment Erema swayed, hand to head, confused. What was he doing here? Seeking to harm the prince? No, that couldn't be! He'd always been jealous of Finist, of his easy grace, his powers. But to turn traitor— Frightened and angry, Erema pulled out the knife with trembling hands. But the sight of that dark blade made his head swim. He felt so weak…

Ljuba. He must remember Ljuba. As long as he could hold her image in his mind, a talisman, a shield against the fire, he was safe. But Ljuba was in peril. That was it, of course; how could he have forgotten? Ljuba was in peril. And he must protect her!

The fire seized him once more. And Erema, thinking only of Ljuba, reached the stair to the rampart, and began to climb.

She mustn't let Erema get too far ahead. Her instructions had been so very simple: show Finist the knife, tell him you thought it might be enchanted, then «accidentally» graze his arm with the blade. Simplicity. But there was always the chance that that young idiot of a boyar might make some fatal mistake, let Finish read the truth from him, let Finist get a good look at that treated blade before it could be subtly wiped clean…

Damn! There seemed to be an impossible tangle of courtiers through which she must weave her way, each and every one of them seemingly determined to delay her, with their «Why, good day, lady!» and their «Good health to you," all the polite, inane, time‑consuming courtesies to which she must nod and smile, all the while burning with impatience—Oh, damn them! Were they so unused to the sight of her here in the royal palace that they must stare and block her way? Ahead of her, Erema had already started his climb. She dare not let him get too far ahead!

There was no help for it. Heedless of the surprised murmurings all around her, Ljuba caught up the full skirt of her caftan, and ran.

Finist leaned moodily on the rampart's low balustrade, looking out over his city, his thoughts all on the past.

In the old days of the royal house, he knew, cousin had married cousin freely, attempting to enhance and strengthen the family magic. And for a time, it would seem, such a practice had worked. Then such experiments had stopped, perhaps a hundred years or so ago, with nothing at all in the records to indicate why. But Finist suspected the answer. Writings dated to just before that period had mentioned that in some members of the royal line, the innate magic had begun to take some dark and devious turns.

Too much close breeding weakens animal stock. Why should it not do the same to human stock as well?

Ah, and Ljuba… There was a secret he'd never shared with anyone: the chance that the woman might be closer kin than she believed. Finist could only dimly recall the night when he'd still been very much a child, and sleepless, and using his budding talents to wander the palace unnoticed. He'd chanced to overhear Ljuba's mother speaking angrily to someone. What she'd said hadn't made all that much sense to him then; he'd been too young. But if he was remembering correctly, the gist of it had been that Ljuba's father wasn't her real father, that her real father might have been someone closer to the direct royal line…

His father? Surely not. Still… Akh, this is ridiculous! I can't even be certain of what I heard that night!

But this was a foolish train of thought. When he married, as he must, sooner or later, he hoped for at least a touch of the joy that burned between those two young lovers, Marfa and Stefan…

Finist shook his head impatiently. Here he was, continuing to meander foolishly in his thoughts, not even realizing one of the guards was speaking to him.

«Ah, my Prince? My Prince, I hate to be disturbing you, but you didn't say you didn't want to be disturbed, and here's boyar Erema to see you, and him saying that it's important…»

Finist held up a hand to silence the man's ramblings, and glanced past him to where Erema waited anxiously. Now, what? Finist gestured to the young boyar to approach. «What is it, Erema? You look unwell.»

«Uh… I…» Erema stopped short, blinking in bewilderment. Finist studied him with a touch of bewilderment on his part as well. Had the man been drinking? There was nothing to be read from him but waves of wild confusion, of a certain strange psychic fire— And the man was bearing iron, cold iron! But Erema was continuing, more strongly, almost like a man reciting something well learned by rote, «I've found something I think you might wish to examine, my Prince.»

Erema dimly heard himself saying the words Ljuba had taught him. But they meant nothing, there was only Ljuba, the dear one, Ljuba who was in peril from this man, and though his hand began, almost of its own accord, to draw out the dagger as though to merely show his prince a curiosity, he knew he must act, act now to free his love, his Ljuba, from this foul sorcerer!

Finist tensed as Erema began to draw a dagger out of the wide sleeve of the boyar's elegant caftan. But the man was moving so slowly, so carefully, that surely he couldn't mean any threat. And Erema was saying, innocently enough, «I think this knife I've found may have some manner of enchantment on it. Perhaps you would deign to examine it, my Prince?»

Now! thought Erema. Now, when he least suspects! The fire blazed up within him, searing, blinding, destroying all doubts, and wild with hatred, he raised the knife to strike—

Finest felt the savage change in the man's aura, he saw Erema's grip on the knife go from innocent to deadly, and before he could think twice about it, he was springing back— But he'd made a mistake, he'd let Erema corner him against a wall, and Erema, eyes wild and insane, was lunging at him—

He's gone mad! thought Ljuba. The quick realization that her potions had probably driven Erema over the edge crossed her mind, but there wasn't time to worry about it, not with Finist's life at stake! This fool of a guard was never going to let her pass in time, and Ljuba screamed in fury, a scream that swiftly became the harsh cry of a crow—

Even as the knife came plunging down at Finist, a great, dark crow hurtled, shrieking, at Erema. A powerful feathered body struck his head with a sickening thud, sending the stunned boyar half over the edge of the low balustrade, the knife flying from his hand. Finist reached out a quick arm to snatch Erema back from the edge, but he was the barest of instants too late: his fingers closed only on empty air as, with a wild cry, Erema fell out and down, plunging helplessly from the rampart.

For a moment, Finist could only stand frozen in sheer, dazed horror, then he was falcon, plummeting down to where Erema lay in a crumpled heap. The crow flapped her way down to land beside him, returning to human form long enough to gasp: «I—I didn't mean— He was going to kill you — " She broke off abruptly, staring at Finist. In man-shape once more, he stared back at her over the boyar's lifeless form, seeing no shock, no horror, nothing but a wild relief that he, himself, had survived—for her sake, realized Finist with a touch of despair, not for mine, not for our people, only for her own sake—akh, Ljuba!

But by now, courtiers and guards were racing out to see what had happened, and before Finish could say anything aloud, Ljuba, aware suddenly of her nakedness, swiftly returned to crow form and flew quickly away. Finist bent over Erema's body, trying to keep himself from shaking with reaction as he sought desperately to find any lingering sign of life at all.

«I, uh, I'm afraid he's dead, my Prince.» It was a subdued Semyon, the old counselor, solicitously wrapping a hastily borrowed cloak about Finist. «We'll never know why he tried to do what he — "

«No!» The sharpness was more in response to Erema's violent death and Ljuba's callowness than anything logical. Trembling, Finist said harshly, «He's not gone, not yet, not so far away that I can't recall him!»

«My Prince!»

«Dammit, Semyon, the man tried to assassinate me! I want to know why, I want to know who was behind‑Move aside, boyar, and let me work!»

He'd never tried anything like this. Deep within himself, Finist knew this was perilous ground, very close to verging on the forbidden, the Dark Arts, but caught in a net of his own passion, he refused to give way. He knew the proper spell, in theory at least, and so, shrouded in his cloak, crouching over the body like a true necromancer, Finist called up the fire of Power within him and began to force out the strange, painfully twisting syllables. They burned at his mind till he could have screamed, sending the blood surging through him so fiercely he thought he must faint, or die. But he couldn't stop, not now. He could feel the spell beginning to work. He could feel Erema, Erema's spirit, being drawn back to him, though it fought him… but now Erema was slipping away again, and Finist couldn't stop him. The pain, akh, the pain! This was wrong, he knew it was wrong, his innate magic was all of Light, of Nature, and this dark spell was tearing at him, tearing at his very essence—

And suddenly Erema was gone, and the unspent force of the spell was recoiling savagely on Finist. With a groan, the prince came back to himself, fallen helplessly into Semyon's arms, his heart pounding so fiercely that he knew he'd escaped killing himself by only the barest of margins. Drained, Finist lay in his counselor's fatherly support, and knew nothing more for a long while…

Alone in her chambers, Ljuba huddled in silent shock, trying to control her breathing, trying to curb her racing thoughts. That had been such a frighteningly narrow escape! Erema had nearly ended everything then and there, Finist's life, all her hopes— His death was for the best, though she'd be a long time in forgetting the sight of his face as he fell… But at least this way there'd be no awkward questions. And she still had the potion, though it certainly wouldn't be wise to try to use it again right away. Not with Erema's death so fresh in Finist's mind. No, thought Ljuba with a shudder, far better to do nothing at all suspicious for a time, apparently as innocent of plots as some little nun, so that Finist would have no reason to suspect—

The knife! She'd forgotten about the knife! If it still somehow bore traces of her potion on the blade, if Finist chanced to find it or some well‑meaning idiot brought it to him—Oh God, he'd know it had come from her hand; how could he not? She'd be giving him the perfect chance to be rid of her. All he had to do was accuse her of Erema's murder, and…

«No," Ljuba vowed softly, «that won't happen.»

Wearily she got to her feet, stretching muscles already stiff from the unaccustomed flight and attack. Wearily she dressed herself. Then, not daring to consider that she might fail, Ljuba went in search of that dangerous knife.

It couldn't have fallen that far from the palace wall… Somewhere about here…

«Ah!»

Ljuba hastily stifled her sigh of relief, looking warily about. A guard walked by, giving her a rather uncertain glance, but bowing politely enough. Two courtiers fol‑lowed so deep in conversation they didn't even notice her Go on! she urged them silently. Go away!

There, now, she was alone for the moment. Ljuba bent as though merely adjusting the lace of one elegant leather shoe and quietly slipped the knife into her sleeve.

Lady?» asked a sudden voice, and she whirled, heart racing, to see the guard, returned. «Is something wrong?»

Nothing," Ljuba assured him, feeling the knife nestled safely in her sleeve. «Nothing at all.» And, nearly giddy with relief, she gave the man a dazzling smile