The Shining Falcon

What other choice had he? And so, human, Finist fell, arms and legs spread to keep himself level, down through layers of wind, freezing without the warmth of feathers, down and down till— Ah, the winds were weaker here!

With a final surge of effort, Finist became falcon once more, crying out at the strain on his aching wings. But the winds were weaker still—

And suddenly he was free of them, half diving, half falling, tumbling and spiralling to a carpet of trees below him.

It was as clumsy a landing as ever he'd made, leaves blinding him, twigs lashing at his body, but at last his desperately outstretched talons caught at a branch and held, and he was in a tree, alive and unbroken.

For a long, shaken while he perched there, too exhausted to move, craving sleep as a starving man craves food. But he couldn't stay up here, not safely. An overtired avian body tended to slip back into human form of its own accord. He hadn't gone through that stormy ordeal merely to die from a fall out of a tree. Finist groaned, then fluttered painfully to the ground. He huddled under the shelter of a bush, past the point of caring that some woods creature just might like the taste of falcon. He didn't smell like a proper falcon, anyhow… human scent under the bird…

His last coherent thoughts faded away.

Completely drained, Finist slept.

Chapter XIV

Finist awoke shuddering with cold, aching in every joint and almost too stiff to uncurl.

Uncurl? His last memory was of being falcon… Then he really had shifted back to human-shape in his sleep.

Where was he? It was difficult to concentrate; that brief nap had helped, but not enough, and the chill was fogging his mind. All he knew for sure was that he'd been driven far to the west, and that he'd come down in the middle of a forest—hardly surprising, since most of the lands about his own were forest.

And as his mind cleared, Finist could sense the life of that forest all around him. He was foreign here, and all the forest‑magic was awake and stirring in response to the unfamiliar presence of his Power as it never would have bothered to react to a magicless human. Finist quickly sent out a soothing I come in peace, I mean you no harm, and felt the sense of other fade away.

Before Finist could do anything more, he was shaken by a mighty sneeze that completely shattered his concentration. Akh, he couldn't worry about the forest now, not while he was shivering so fiercely. Worse, judging from the angle of fading light through the trees, and the rising chill from the earth, the hour must be somewhere in the late afternoon. He'd never survive the night, not like this!

Groaning, Finist staggered to his feet. At least most of the damage from his wild flight and fall was minor, scratches and bruises, already healing. But if he didn't find clothing…

Hear me, he sent to the forest-presence, I must make use of some of your Power, just a bit. Is it granted?

The branches about him rustled after a moment, rustled when there was no wind, and the prince took that for consent. Well and good, but it wasn't going to help him if this spell didn't work…

Luck was with him. Finist found tufts of deer fur caught in underbrush almost right away, and managed to disentangle them despite trembling hands. Closing his eyes, sending his will out to touch the forest‑magic, feeling Power swirl dizzyingly about him, he condensed a tiny bit of that fierce life-force, using the fur scraps as focus, into a sort of backwoods caftan and boots. The prince opened his eyes with a sigh, looking wryly down at his crude handiwork. At least it should prove warm enough. He slipped the makeshift caftan on, then sagged to the forest floor in renewed weariness.

His mind was working again—working a little too well, reminding him that he was in someone else's domain, reminding him of all the horror stories he'd ever heard of what might happen to royalty caught in foreign lands: torment, death, ransom enough to destroy his people… Finist glanced down at his ugly clothing and gave a dry little laugh.

At least I don't have to worry about being conspicuous!

Inconspicuous? With silver-bright hair and amber eyes? Finist groaned again, trying to concentrate only on the warmth of his caftan, trying to put off the moment of magic as long as possible. His falcon-shape might be as natural to him as his human form, but any other form certainly wasn't, There'd be a price to pay for even minor shape-altering—besides an increase in weariness—and after a moment his tired brain remembered it: he'd still be able to shift into falcon-form, yes, but every time he returned to human shape, it would be to the conjured form, not his own, until someone called him by his rightful name.

It seemed a small enough price to pay for safety.