The Shining Falcon

Finist, the wind whistling through his feathers, wasn't being quite as frivolous as either his counselor or his cousin might think. No, he was making use of an advantage no magicless prince could claim: he was analyzing his city's strengths and weaknesses from the air, his falcon's vision rendering even the smallest detail crisply clear.

And what he saw was pleasing. No piles of disease-breeding refuse in his city! Kirtesk might not be as grand or as large as some other royal cities he might name—such as Radost and Stargorod, far to the west—but it was clean and neat and nicely ordered there in the early morning sunlight, all the streets paved with proper planking. Aside from that paving, there was little use of wood; save for the occasional one-story, gaily painted house with its intricately carved shuttered and doorposts, most of Kirtesk's buildings were made of stone, two or sometimes, daringly, even three stories high, their steeply sloping, many-gabled roofs shingled with slate that glowed a clean blue-grey in the sunlight.

The Pact still stands.

He meant that pact his magical ancestors, long generations back, had sworn with Those of the forest at Kirtesk's founding. There was a good deal of the Old Magic still alive in that vast, surrounding forest, the raw Power of elemental nature that was so much stronger than anything mere humans could control, and it was wisest to keep on its good side. The Pact had stated simply: so long as the humans of the city never harmed the forest, the forest would never encroach on the city. Kirtesk's planking came only from dead or diseased trees.

Finist nodded to himself. The Pact was a fine and just thing. And stone houses were far less likely to catch fire.

The prince caught a smooth current of air under his wings, enjoying the silken play of it about his body, and made one more wide sweep over Kirtesk, studying the stone wall surrounding it—another source of pride, pact notwithstanding, since even Stargorod had to make do with a mere wooden palisade—then headed back towards the royal palace where it burned dazzingly bright against the cloudless sky.

Motion far below caught the falcon's eye, and Finist glanced down to see a group of folk headed that way, moving shyly, dressed mostly in homespun: farmers come, as was their right this third day of the month, to present petitions. He watched them point up towards his gleaming self, nudging each other, making self‑conscious little bows, and Finist sighed. So much for free time.

He flung himself into one last, wild loop in the air for the sheer joy of flight, then came swooping down through an open palace window, folding his wings at the last possible moment to make it safely through the narrow opening, then throwing them wide again to kill his speed, coming to a smooth landing on the marble floor. The change began as he willed it, the swift, dizzying not-quite-pain, not-quite-pleasure as bones and sinews stretched and lengthened, as the sense of smell returned in a dazzling rush of sandalwood, leather, silk, as colors brightened and vision dulled to the merely human once more.

Patient servants stood waiting as the falcon-shape rapidly blurred, grew, then resolved itself into the form of a tall young man, somewhat breathless, hair silvery and tousled, eyes bright amber. Quickly and efficiently, used to their shape-shifting master, they dressed him in regal robes stiff with gold thread, combing the wild, bright hair into docility, placing a thin golden circlet on Finist's head while he caught his breath and adjusted to being human again.

«So," he said at last, grinning. «Thank you, all of you. And now, to business.»

With that, the Prince of Kirtesk, all wildness hidden, swept regally down to the great audience hall.

Ljuba had watched helplessly as the falcon disappeared blithely into the royal palace. Now, with an angry, weary little hiss of a sigh, she let her hand fall.

That spell would have caught an ordinary man. It had, several times before this; Ljuba was not one to risk an untested spell. But I should have known. What's enough to snare an ordinary man is never strong enough to snare a magician!

She massaged tired fingers, trying to ignore the whiny little inner voice that whispered, It's fortunate you failed, now you don't have to try again, now you'll be safe…