The Shining Falcon

Ah, and Ljuba… There was a secret he'd never shared with anyone: the chance that the woman might be closer kin than she believed. Finist could only dimly recall the night when he'd still been very much a child, and sleepless, and using his budding talents to wander the palace unnoticed. He'd chanced to overhear Ljuba's mother speaking angrily to someone. What she'd said hadn't made all that much sense to him then; he'd been too young. But if he was remembering correctly, the gist of it had been that Ljuba's father wasn't her real father, that her real father might have been someone closer to the direct royal line…

His father? Surely not. Still… Akh, this is ridiculous! I can't even be certain of what I heard that night!

But this was a foolish train of thought. When he married, as he must, sooner or later, he hoped for at least a touch of the joy that burned between those two young lovers, Marfa and Stefan…

Finist shook his head impatiently. Here he was, continuing to meander foolishly in his thoughts, not even realizing one of the guards was speaking to him.

«Ah, my Prince? My Prince, I hate to be disturbing you, but you didn't say you didn't want to be disturbed, and here's boyar Erema to see you, and him saying that it's important…»

Finist held up a hand to silence the man's ramblings, and glanced past him to where Erema waited anxiously. Now, what? Finist gestured to the young boyar to approach. «What is it, Erema? You look unwell.»

«Uh… I…» Erema stopped short, blinking in bewilderment. Finist studied him with a touch of bewilderment on his part as well. Had the man been drinking? There was nothing to be read from him but waves of wild confusion, of a certain strange psychic fire— And the man was bearing iron, cold iron! But Erema was continuing, more strongly, almost like a man reciting something well learned by rote, «I've found something I think you might wish to examine, my Prince.»

Erema dimly heard himself saying the words Ljuba had taught him. But they meant nothing, there was only Ljuba, the dear one, Ljuba who was in peril from this man, and though his hand began, almost of its own accord, to draw out the dagger as though to merely show his prince a curiosity, he knew he must act, act now to free his love, his Ljuba, from this foul sorcerer!

Finist tensed as Erema began to draw a dagger out of the wide sleeve of the boyar's elegant caftan. But the man was moving so slowly, so carefully, that surely he couldn't mean any threat. And Erema was saying, innocently enough, «I think this knife I've found may have some manner of enchantment on it. Perhaps you would deign to examine it, my Prince?»

Now! thought Erema. Now, when he least suspects! The fire blazed up within him, searing, blinding, destroying all doubts, and wild with hatred, he raised the knife to strike—

Finest felt the savage change in the man's aura, he saw Erema's grip on the knife go from innocent to deadly, and before he could think twice about it, he was springing back— But he'd made a mistake, he'd let Erema corner him against a wall, and Erema, eyes wild and insane, was lunging at him—

He's gone mad! thought Ljuba. The quick realization that her potions had probably driven Erema over the edge crossed her mind, but there wasn't time to worry about it, not with Finist's life at stake! This fool of a guard was never going to let her pass in time, and Ljuba screamed in fury, a scream that swiftly became the harsh cry of a crow—

Even as the knife came plunging down at Finist, a great, dark crow hurtled, shrieking, at Erema. A powerful feathered body struck his head with a sickening thud, sending the stunned boyar half over the edge of the low balustrade, the knife flying from his hand. Finist reached out a quick arm to snatch Erema back from the edge, but he was the barest of instants too late: his fingers closed only on empty air as, with a wild cry, Erema fell out and down, plunging helplessly from the rampart.

For a moment, Finist could only stand frozen in sheer, dazed horror, then he was falcon, plummeting down to where Erema lay in a crumpled heap. The crow flapped her way down to land beside him, returning to human form long enough to gasp: «I—I didn't mean— He was going to kill you — " She broke off abruptly, staring at Finist. In man-shape once more, he stared back at her over the boyar's lifeless form, seeing no shock, no horror, nothing but a wild relief that he, himself, had survived—for her sake, realized Finist with a touch of despair, not for mine, not for our people, only for her own sake—akh, Ljuba!