The Shining Falcon

Ah, the fire in his brain.' He couldn't think, couldn't move, only hear her speak, each word a separate flame. «Oh, my dear Erema, I don't want to leave. But I must.»

«No!»

«Don't you see? I have no choice. My cousin's magic is far too strong for me. If he summons me, if he makes me his slave, how can I resist?»

The fire, the fire burning at his brain… Somehow Erema managed to gasp, «I will save you!»

«Do you mean that?» Her voice was fierce in its inten-sity. «Erema, you swore once you would do anything I bade. Is that still the truth?»

Frantic with the fire's heat, Erema grabbed the goblet she handed him, gulping down the contents without even tasting them. But the fire burned on, unchecked.

«Yes!» he gasped. «Anything!»

A knife was in his hand, though he couldn't recall how it had gotten there. As he stared down at its keen, strangely darkened blade, he heard Ljuba's voice, sharp as the knife: «Remember!»

Remember what? Had she been talking to him? He wasn't sure…

«Erema! Do what I've told you. Scratch Finist's arm with this blade, and his hold over me will be broken. Remember, it must seem an accident! And do no more than scratch him.»

She might have said more, but now Erema found he couldn't seem to hear her. The fire was all around, the fire… He nodded obediently, but all he could see was the knife in his hand. And all he could remember was the name of Finist.

Finist, his rival. His foe.

Chapter IX The Accident

He must keep the knife hidden. That much he knew. No one must see it, not till he was near the prince. And then, and then… Erema laughed softly to himself, pleased with his cunning. Why, already he'd made his way through the palace unchallenged, already he'd learned that Finist stood alone and unguarded up on a rampart!

Just for a moment, the fire in his mind seemed to fade; for a moment Erema swayed, hand to head, confused. What was he doing here? Seeking to harm the prince? No, that couldn't be! He'd always been jealous of Finist, of his easy grace, his powers. But to turn traitor— Frightened and angry, Erema pulled out the knife with trembling hands. But the sight of that dark blade made his head swim. He felt so weak…

Ljuba. He must remember Ljuba. As long as he could hold her image in his mind, a talisman, a shield against the fire, he was safe. But Ljuba was in peril. That was it, of course; how could he have forgotten? Ljuba was in peril. And he must protect her!

The fire seized him once more. And Erema, thinking only of Ljuba, reached the stair to the rampart, and began to climb.

She mustn't let Erema get too far ahead. Her instructions had been so very simple: show Finist the knife, tell him you thought it might be enchanted, then «accidentally» graze his arm with the blade. Simplicity. But there was always the chance that that young idiot of a boyar might make some fatal mistake, let Finish read the truth from him, let Finist get a good look at that treated blade before it could be subtly wiped clean…

Damn! There seemed to be an impossible tangle of courtiers through which she must weave her way, each and every one of them seemingly determined to delay her, with their «Why, good day, lady!» and their «Good health to you," all the polite, inane, time‑consuming courtesies to which she must nod and smile, all the while burning with impatience—Oh, damn them! Were they so unused to the sight of her here in the royal palace that they must stare and block her way? Ahead of her, Erema had already started his climb. She dare not let him get too far ahead!

There was no help for it. Heedless of the surprised murmurings all around her, Ljuba caught up the full skirt of her caftan, and ran.

Finist leaned moodily on the rampart's low balustrade, looking out over his city, his thoughts all on the past.

In the old days of the royal house, he knew, cousin had married cousin freely, attempting to enhance and strengthen the family magic. And for a time, it would seem, such a practice had worked. Then such experiments had stopped, perhaps a hundred years or so ago, with nothing at all in the records to indicate why. But Finist suspected the answer. Writings dated to just before that period had mentioned that in some members of the royal line, the innate magic had begun to take some dark and devious turns.

Too much close breeding weakens animal stock. Why should it not do the same to human stock as well?