The Shining Falcon

At least his discomfort was merely physical. Finist glanced out at his boyars, those supposed «equals among nobles» who, he knew, actually had a stern pecking order in which status depended on their service to him and their ancestors' service to his ancestors. He bit back an impa-tient little sigh at the sight of them in their overstuffed sobriety sitting in neat rows on the benches lining the audience hall. Custom decreed they attend any meeting other than that of the Inner Council, so here they were, all of them looking bored to the point of yawning, yet none having the nerve or spontaneity to simply beg his pardon and leave. Their dullness was incongruous in that great, grandly ornamented hall: thick stone pillars supported the sweep of its vaulted roof; and ceiling and pillars and walls were rich with color, blazing with paintings of Kirtesk reflected dazzlingly by the polished marble floor.

But even more incongruous in their plain, honest greys and browns were the reasons he sat here—the stream of petitioners, farmers, artisans, common folk, come to him with problems of farms or taxes or inheritances. Suddenly Finist tensed, feeling a faint psychic stirring, a feather's touch brushing his consciousness: Ljuba. His cousin must be watching the proceedings, as she often did, through a magic-treated mirror. It was her right, after all, as a member of the royal family. And even this sometime interest in the outside world, Finist supposed, must be healthier for a young woman than that self‑imposed semiexile of hers spent in what was generally unproductive arcane study.

Not that she would be finding much of interest in peasant affairs. Elegant enough for you? Finist asked her silently, sarcastically, though of course, she couldn't hear him.

Forget Ljuba. Now, to business.

In the slow hours that followed, Finist counselled where he could, occasionally calling on this or that boyar for advice, making those decisions he thought just, using his magic to determine honesty or falsehood—not that there were many who'd dare lie to a magician—and wondered, deep within him, if the line of supplicants would never end. Thank Heaven, this day came only once a month!

He could, of course, have simply declared the audience at an end at his whim. But his father had never done such a thing, not when there might be someone genuinely in need of his help, and neither, Finist conceded reluctantly, would he.

At last the final group of petitioners approached the throne. Finist leaned forward, studying them. No farmers, these straight-backed, leather‑clad men. Woodsmen, he guessed, fearless souls from one of the small villages that dared nestle within the boundaries of the vast forest which covered much of the land, the forest that was still full of the Old Magic. Finist raised an eyebrow. It must be some great problem indeed to bring such proud, self-sufficient folk all the way to his court.

But right now they didn't look particularly proud, shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes never quite meeting his gaze.

«Well?» prodded Finist at last. «What would you? Come, speak.»

That merited him a quick, wary glance from the lean, middle-aged man who seemed the group's leader. And Finist drew a startled gasp at the sorrow he glimpsed in those weary eyes.

«Come," the prince repeated, more gently. «Speak.»

The weatherbeaten face reddened. «It's just…» He glanced pointedly at the bored boyars. «Eh, what it is, is that we need your magic, my prince. But we… uh…»

«You'd just as soon not have everyone here knowing your troubles," Finist concluded. Intrigued, the prince studied the man for a silent moment, wondering… Royalty always has its enemies; he wasn't so naive as to believe he mightn't have some secret foes. Yet he sensed no treachery in the man, only that awkward, painful sorrow. Eyes half‑closed, arm outstretched, Finist quested with his mind for the aura of hidden weaponry on the group, hunting for the cold, cruel tang which meant iron—that metal most deadly to magic and magicians—for any other concealed weapons… Nothing.

«So be it.» Finist got to his feet in a swirl of robes, moving smoothly down the dais' narrow stairway, ignoring the stirrings of surprise from his boyars. «The rest of you, wait here. You» — pointing at the sad-eyed man—

«come with me.»

* * *

The Ruby Chamber was a much smaller audience chamber, less formal despite the elegance of silken rugs imported from the East and the glowing red walls delicately ornamented in patterns of gold. It was one of Finist's favorite meeting rooms, since it was one of the few to boast the luxury of a wide window, reminding him comfortably of the sky's freedom just outside. It also had, much to his relief, no cumbersome throne, only a relatively simple chair of polished wood thickly padded with red brocade and raised on only a few token steps. Here he sat, watching the woodsman's silent unease.