The Shining Falcon

Josepha Sherman The Shining Falcon

Chapter I Falcon And Crow

High over Kirtesk, the prince's city, a falcon sported in the clear sky—a falcon like no other, glinting bright in the sun, silver in the morning light.

Below, leaning gingerly out of a window in the white and gold royal palace, old boyar Semyon, chief of the princely council, eldest of that noble lot, craned his head back to watch, and gave a wry, amused little smile.

«How like his father he is! Escaping from the court like this, if only for a time—our Prince Finist may be a wise young man, wise in statecraft, wise in magic, but sometimes the wind does call to him!»

Across the smooth, paved square, another watched that flight. Ljuba, lovely Ljuba, hair a knee‑length fall of burnished gold, eyes deep and lustrous blue, royal Ljuba, cousin to the prince, stood at a sheltered window in her own small palace, staring after that falcon with eyes which blazed with undisguised passion.

God, to fly like that!

Oh, Ljuba could master the shifting to a second, avian shape—of course she could. Magic ran through all the royal line; it always had. And each member of that line had, as part of his or her birthright, an avian shape almost as easy to the wearing as the natural human form. But for Ljuba what should be a simple thing, a gentle shifting of shape, was far from easy. For her, the change ate at her strength, pointing out her shame, the fact that the magic she'd inherited was weak, weak.

True, she'd had the will to study on her own, seeking through arcane scrolls the knowledge that should have been innately hers, the touch of Power in her blood giving her at least a slight edge over any totally nonmagical would-be sorcerer trying to learn spells by rote. True, her understanding of secret, magical herbs was second to none; there was a certain satisfaction in seeing her potions work, watching torn flesh heal or fever flee.

But that was such a small thing. To wield something of Finist's effortless magic, to feel the Power running through one's veins, strong and sweet… The true-shape forced on her by her own weak magic was no graceful falcon, but a crow, nothing but a common, ugly crow. She seldom flew, at least not when anyone could see.

Flight's the least of it!

Watching Finist's shining, easy, self‑confident skill, Ljuba felt a sharp, irrational stab of hatred for her dead mother, hatred at her for having been only petty nobility, for having left her daughter barely enough Power to prove royal blood, for having left her so far from the direct line of succession that even Finist's sudden death wouldn't improve her rank.

No, should Finist die, unwed and childless as he was, his uncle would take the throne: «Vasili.» Ljuba spat the name. Gentle Vasili—priestly Vasili, there in his quiet mountain monastery.

He'd sworn an oath once, had Vasili, years back, presumably lest he be used by plotters against his brother, Finist's father. He'd sworn never again to enter Kirtesk.

But let our Finist die, and we'll see how quickly dear Vasili bows to fate and overcomes his scruples. He's still young enough to wed, to sire heirs. Heirs! And where does that leave me?

Ljuba glared up at her cousin with a new fierceness, heart pounding. Finist didn't even suspect! He thought she chose to isolate herself from court with her herbs. He knew she'd have no reason at all to attack him.

So my dear cousin leaves me alone with my studies— Oh, fool!

She'd stumbled on it almost by accident, after all the years of trial and failure, she'd discovered the one potion that just might bring her power… But something within her hesitated. Something within her wanted to turn away, arguing that she wasn't ready, it wasn't time, afraid to act, afraid—

No. She had to face the truth. On her own, she would never be able to win the throne, or wield true Power, or do anything at all of any worth. The only way Ljuba was ever going to have any chance to rule Kirtesk was by ruling Finist himself!

Wildly she flung up a hand. The air about it shimmered faintly—heat-haze shimmer, magic haze—as the long, graceful fingers began to weave intricate patterns. The faintest of crooning syllables left Ljuba's lips, the sound caressing, compelling…

«Come to me, Finist, come to me…»

Again the charm was repeated, again…

But the falcon, wheeling easily in the free sky, showed not the slightest sign of heeding.