The Shining Falcon

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.

Chapter XLII

Lesielo

Giggling, Marfa scurried down the narrow forest path, hearing Stefan laughing and panting somewhere behind her. Of course, she didn't plan to run too fast! She had no intention of outpacing him, not with those lovely thoughts of capture and delicious surrender dancing in her mind. As an old married couple of nearly a year, they were supposed to be somberly working in forest and garden, not cavorting about like a couple of spring‑mad deer‑didn't she, after all, have her hair coiled up on her head in a married woman's braids? But you couldn't be expected to be serious all the time, not when you were young and alive and—

Marfa stumbled to a stop. «Stefan! Stefan, come here. Hurry!»