The Shining Falcon

Maria took a great breath. «I don't know his holy name. But in the secular world he was called Prince Vasili.»

There was the hiss of sharply indrawn breath from the other side of the door. «He sees no one from the outside world! No one save his royal nephew.»

Finist! «Oh, please! I've come on behalf of that nephew!» Feeling those turtle-eyes staring skeptically, Maria continued, «I beg you, take word to Prince Vasili. Tell him—tell him Prince Finist's in peril! Tell him it's quite literally a matter of life and death! Please — "

Suddenly she realized she was speaking to empty air.

How long had they kept her here outside the gate, waiting in suspense? Maria shifted her weight restlessly from foot to foot, thinking that it had been long enough for her to have remembered every worry she'd been trying to forget!

What if Vasili wouldn't see her?

What if he were ill? Too ill for visitors?

What if he wasn't even here, or alive, or—

The anguished groaning of ancient wood startled her. The monastery's heavy door was being pulled slowly open, just wide enough to reveal the figure of a carefully bland-faced young monk—a novice, she supposed.

«Please," he said, «follow me.»

Maria bid a hasty, grateful farewell to her village escort, and squeezed through the narrow opening, only to find herself in a narrow courtyard, facing a second wall. Beyond it were hints of the red-tiled roofs of various buildings, kelü, the monks' individual cells, she guessed, plus the main chapel and whatever else was deemed necessary to an isolated mountain retreat.

Of course, the monks weren't going to let a young woman onto the actual monastery grounds. Instead, her guide led her down the length of the inner wall, the only sound that of his sandals slapping against paving stone, till they reached a little herb garden.

Neutral ground, Maria thought dryly.

Then she saw the man who stood tranquilly awaiting her, and forgot her sarcasm. He was tall, dignified— somehow, even after all the long years away from the world, he still looked regal. Even in the plain, dark, monkish robes, this could only be Prince Vasili. And oh, he did look so much like Finist! A Finist grown old, hair gone white, skin more tightly drawn over the high, elegant cheekbones… Overwhelmed, Maria began to sink into a respectful curtsey, but in two smooth steps he was at her side, and strong, gentle hands were reaching out to pull her up again.

«No, child. I am Brother Feodosi, no more than that.»

Seen up this close, the resemblance to his nephew wasn't quite so stunning. Brother Feodosi's face was softer than Finist's, his eyes not the falcon's fierce amber, but a subtler gold—the eyes, Maria thought, of an aging, gentled eagle.

But as the man studied her, those golden eyes brightened, surprised and warm.

«Why, my dear, you are Finist's love! How wonderful!»

«You—you know — " Maria stopped, blushing. «Oh. Of course you'd know. The magic…»

The man gave her a wry little quirk of a smile. «The magic, yes. It does still flow in my blood. Though now I use it only for healing. But you are… ?»

«Maria Danilovna of Stargorod.» Maria shook her head impatiently, abruptly remembering, now that the first shock was past, why she'd come. «But that's — "

«Stargorod! You've come a long way!»

«Yes, but I — "

«And to see me.» All at once his voice was very serious. «At the gate, you spoke of my nephew. And of peril.»

«Yes.» Maria paused, trying to organize her thoughts, then dove headlong into her story, of herself, of Finist, of that strange, sudden illness and‑Ljuba.

Odd. When she first mentioned Ljuba, the man's face had grown very still. And when she finished her story, the first thing he asked was:

«Are you sure? That… the Lady Ljuba is to blame— are you sure?»

Maria gave a sharp, incredulous little laugh. «Oh, very; I assure you, Alexei was trying to kill me. And it was at Ljuba's command.»

«Yes, but you admitted that the man was insane. He might have been lying, or indulging some mad fancy. You might have misunderstood him. That's only understandable, what with the shock and fear you must have been feeling. You might very well have been mistaken.»

Maria stared at him, bewildered. «No, I most certainly was not mistaken! Neither were the villagers of Lesielo, for that matter. Ljuba was and is to blame—of that I am very, very sure.»

«Ah.» It was a sound almost of pain. «I… see.»

Maria waited anxiously, expecting him to continue. But when the man said nothing more, she prodded, «But aren't you going to do something? Can't you help? I'm not worried about myself, not—not really. But Finist—poor Finist! Can't you — "

«No.»

«W-what?»

«I'm sorry, child. There's nothing that I can do.»

«That doesn't make sense! You're a magician, you can't be afraid of a sorceress!»

«It isn't fear," he murmured. «Not of that.»

«And you're Finist's uncle! Surely that matters to you!»

«It does.» The golden eyes were dark with pain. «I love my nephew dearly. Please, child, believe me. But… there really is nothing I can do. I'm sorry.»