The Shining Falcon

Not quite. They hit the ground with stunning force. Maria was thrown from the eagle's back and went rolling helplessly away, ending up at last on her back, staring blankly up at the night‑darkening sky, too dazed and winded to move.

Yes, but she was beginning to realize she'd landed right on top of her pack, and it was uncomfortable, to say the least. And the eagle—she didn't hear a sound from him. Was he all right?

When Maria painfully managed to sit up and turn around, she saw him, no longer eagle but man, half-hidden by the bushes into which he'd fallen, lying quite still.

She hurried to him, and let out her breath in a sigh of relief: He wasn't dead. Drained of strength, he had collapsed into heavy sleep. Maria hesitated, glancing toward the walls of Kirtesk, now so temptingly near. Akh, Finist! If she left now, she might be at his side this very night.

Maria sighed and turned back towards the unconscious man, spreading her shawl and scarf over him for warmth and modesty.

It was going to be a long night.

Vasili awoke with a cry, blinking in confusion at the sleepy Maria there in the cold grey light of early morning,

«What— Oh. Yes.» He clutched the shawl frantically to him. «Was I asleep all this time?»

«You were.»

«Ah.» The fair skin reddened a bit. «Child, forgive me, I thought I'd outgrown the sin of Pride, but… it was so glorious to fly again.» He shook his head in self-reproach. «I should have heeded you and landed before I'd exhausted myself.»

You should, indeed, thought Maria, but all she said was a carefully bland «No harm done. But are you all right?»

For answer, he shifted smoothly back to eagle—a normal-sized eagle this time—offering her shawl and scarf with a careful talon. Golden eyes looked from her to Kirtesk and back again.

Maria sighed. «I know, I know. You still will not break your vow by entering the city.»

The eagle gave her an apologetic glance. He reached forward to rub his head against her cheek in a gentle caress, then took to the air in a rush, flying back to his monastery. Maria got to her feet, watching till she couldn't see him any longer, then turned to face Kirtesk, feeling a surge of something near to panic.

Finist, Maria reminded herself, and started determinedly forward.

The guards hadn't even looked twice at the plain-faced peasant girl entering their city. Maria scuttled through the vast main gate before they could change their minds, but then had to stop, overwhelmed by the realization that she was in Kirtesk. After all these days and hardships, she was actually in Kirtesk!

For a moment, Maria seemed to hear Vasilissa's voice in her ear, warning her, A boyar's daughter doesn't stare; a boyar's daughter doesn't gawk at things like a peasant.

Right now, I am a peasant! Maria retorted, and stood and gawked as she would.

Even consumed by worry as she was, Maria had to confess that this was a lovely city. It wasn't as large as Stargorod, but unlike that hectic, complicated place, it was clean. The streets—all of them, by Heaven, not just those leading to the market square—were paved with smooth planking. The houses were mostly of fine stone, though some were of wood beautifully carved and painted. And the people‑Maria raised a surprised eyebrow. In Stargorod, only the boyars wore anything more exotic than linen. Here, it seemed that linen was reserved for the poor. Everyone else wore a wild riot of color, tunics and trousers for the men, gaily embroidered blouses and sarafans, overdresses, for the women, brocaded caftans for the wealthy. The fabrics of choice seemed to be either the finest, thinnest of wools or even silk!

Well, Finist did mention to me once that Kirtesk is on one of the silk routes.

It wasn't just the material prosperity, though. Kirtesk had a feel of joy to it, of contentment—something Stargorod had always lacked. Although Maria knew she had never been here before, she felt very much as though she had come home.

But what sort of home could it be without Finist?

The sheer anguish of that thought brought her sharply back to reality, and all at once Maria found herself staring at the people she passed—staring with a new and ever‑increasing fear.

Why do they all have such sad, worried faces? Why is the city so quiet? It's almost as though everyone's in mourning. Oh, dear God, am I too late?

Surely she would know if Finist were dead. She would know it.

Panic wasn't going to solve anything. Mimicking Mar-fa's accent as best she could, Maria asked a cloth merchant, «Something wrong here?»

He looked at her in disbelief. «Just come in from the countryside, have you? Haven't you heard about our poor Prince?»

«He—he isn't — "