The Shining Falcon

Warily, the prince let down his mental guards, sending out a careful, wordless query… brushing the other mind, the lupine mind… No; he'd felt the animal thoughts of wolves before, the basic instincts for food and pack, but there were no such thoughts here, only a half-formed vagueness, and behind it the hint of some lost, frightened consciousness…

Finist hastily drew his senses back into himself lest he too get snared by vagueness. «So-o…» he breathed. «Feodor was right. You are Stefan, aren't you? I wonder who transformed you, and how.»

The wolf froze at the first sound of his voice, ears up, and stared at him intently.

«No," the prince continued softly, «the problem is that your untrained mind doesn't know how to deal with the change. Humanity is sliding away from you. And how am I to draw you back?»

The wolf couldn't hold his gaze any longer. With a wor-ried little whine it began pacing back and forth, giving him quick, nervous glances.

«If I'm to do you any good, I must lay hands on you," Finist told it, taking a slow, cautious step forward. «But will you let me approach you, Stefan?»

He continued his patient, wary dance, now a step forward, now a step back, being always careful never to come between the uneasy creature and the safety of the forest, keeping up a steady, soothing croon as though this really was no more than some frightened beast. Finist knew he didn't dare move any faster: push the confused creature that was wolf-Stefan too hard, and he'd be sure to either run off or attack in sheer panic.

«So, and so… Another few steps and I'll be at your side, and maybe you'll actually allow me to touch you, and I'll be able to — "

«Stefan!»

A small, feminine form came hurtling out of the forest towards the wolf. This had to be Marfa, hiding in wait for her transformed lover, meaning only good—but Stefan didn't know her, not as he was. All he knew was that this screaming human was cutting off his escape. «No!» Finist shouted. «Get away!» Too late—the wolf was springing. So Finist sprang first, catching the thin grey form in mid‑leap, hurling them both to the ground, the wolf snarling like a true wild thing, Finist trying frantically to pin the lithe body writhing and snapping in his grip, trying to hold those powerful jaws together. God, the strength of the thing!

And then, in the middle of the struggle, Finist, hot animal breath in his face, glanced wildly up to catch the merest glimpse of a fine-boned, so familiar face, long hair shining like burnished gold even in the dim light: Ljuba. Ljuba, here? Impossible; she hated the forest, fearing its wild magic—besides, if she were here, she'd be helping him, wouldn't she? Aie, watching his council meetings was one thing, she had a perfect right to do that, royal lady that she was, but spying on him was something else entirely! Angry, Finist glanced up again and saw nothing but forest, and nearly got himself raked by the frantic wolfs claws for that moment of inattention. Panting, he fought till he'd managed to lock his legs about the straining beast. Slowly, painfully, he forced the lupine head about, forced the wild eyes to meet his gaze.

«Stefan. You are Stefan. I call you, I — "

He broke off with a gasp as fangs snapped and nearly closed on his arm. Finist caught the wolf in a fiercer grip, feeling Power blaze up within him, a fire in the blood, and began again, calling Stefan, coaxing, summoning, dragging the lost essence that was Stefan back and back and back…

And suddenly the lithe grey form went limp and submissive in his arms, gazing pleadingly up at him with human eyes.

«Stefan," murmured Finist, releasing his grip gladly, the fire fading within him. «Now‑let's see how to—break the charm… Get you back into your rightful shape.»

But there was a flicker of movement: Marfa, come to take the wolfs head in her arms, sobbing over him with adolescent fervor—or guilt? Finist studied her a moment, eyes widening in sudden comprehension.

«Marfa," he said sternly, and she turned to him, plainly terrified of his magic, his royalty, but determined to be brave: a small, pretty, defiant thing. The desperation in that slight frame touched Finist, and he sighed. «Why, Marfa? Why do this thing?»

«I—I didn't — "

«Don't lie. Not to me. Why did you do it? Do you hate Stefan so very much?»

«I don't hate him!» It was an anguished wail. «I never—Oh, Stefan! Stefan, forgive me! I—I was so angry, I didn't think; we'd sworn to be true to each other, and then Anna told me, that night the two of you had—had— How could you?»

Wolf-Stefan gave a little whine, seeming to shrink into himself, abashed, eyes fixed on her face, pleading, Forgive-, please, forgive!

Marfa hesitated. Then, with a little sob, she let her hand fall to his head, stroking the rough grey fur.