The Shining Falcon

«Maria.» Finist hesitated, suddenly remembering the leshy's talk of armored men in the forest. «Maria, I know your father has some powerful enemy. No, don't flinch. He made that fact very clear the day the thieves attacked him. But you can't believe I'm from that enemy. Oh, you can't!»

«I— No, I can't believe anyone's that good an actor.»

«But you're afraid that I might betray you? I might go running off to said enemy with hopes of reward? No. I am neither as poverty-stricken as I might look nor a betrayer of hospitality.»

Or of you, my heart, said a gentle voice in Finist's mind. But he resolutely shut it away.

Maria sighed. «My father," she began cautiously.

She was interrupted by a sharp voice shouting, «Maria!»

Her father came hurrying up with a hoe still in his hand. «Maria, what do you think you're doing?»

«We need that water back at the house! Now, hurry!» Maria bowed her head in resigned obedience. «Of course, Father.»

The man waited till she was out of earshot, then turned fiercely to Finist. «And what do you think you were doing?»

«Why, helping your daughter with the water buckets!»

«By holding her hands and whispering to her?»

This was a situation the prince certainly had never had to face before. And for a moment he could only stammer, «What in the name of— Good God, man, I'd never harm Maria in any way, I—care for her — "

«Care for her! You! A landless, nameless — "

That was just too much for Finist's patience. «Enough!» he snapped regally. «My lands are far finer than these, my name as high as any! Now stop this nonsense and tell me what really troubles you. You're not really worried that I might be trying to dishonor your daughter. You trust Maria's common sense too much for that! You heard what I was asking her, didn't you?»

The older man's face grew very cold. «Young man, I have offered you my hospitality. Now I must demand that you leave.»

Leave Maria? Leave her to poverty and near-slavery? An angry Finist caught her father's glance, his will, fiercely sending honor at him, and trust, and honesty… realizing suddenly that beneath that cold, wary wall, this man, no less than Maria, ached for the chance to confide. Of course he didn't trust Finist. How could he trust a stranger? But the prince's magical persuasions gently wore away at the wall till all at once the man shuddered and said, very softly:

«It would be good to speak openly again, so good…»

«Speak, then," Finist urged gently. «No harm will come of it.»

«Ahh… You… Finn, you who are more than you seem, know that I too am more. I am‑I was‑Danilo Yaroslavovich, boyar at the royal court at Stargorod, advisor in the prince's Inner Council.»

«So-o! Prince Svyatoslav is your enemy?»

«No, not really. It was Alexei, may Heaven curse him, young, sly, treacherous Alexei…»

And while Finist listened in disbelief, Danilo told of the incredibly fragile claims of treason, of the farce of a trial, of the sentence of death and the imprisonment.

«But you escaped.»

«I escaped," the man echoed flatly. «My poor Lissa still has dreams of that, and wakens screaming. But," he finished bleakly, «here we are, safe at least for now.»

Shaken, pitying, Finist released his psychic hold, saying softly, «Forget this. Forget," and saw the man quietly return to his gardening.

Svyatoslav, mused Finist. He knew that oh-so-suspicious ruler, though they'd never actually met, not with so much forest and distance separating their two realms. But they'd corresponded, as politic princes do. Finist had always known the other prince was a wary sort. But tactful words on parchment hardly told the whole truth. Now, to realize just how unstable, mistrusting a man ruled Stargorod…

It was shocking, genuinely shocking, that a prince of the blood should prove so weak. Worse than weak-willing to believe an unproven tale—a lie—and condemn one of his Inner Circle to death, just like that!

Finist hadn't the slightest doubt that Danilo had been telling the truth; the man couldn't have lied to him, not while under that gentle psychic compunction.

To waste a good, honest, intelligent man—Svyatoslav, you fool!

And what of this boyar Alexei? Finist thought of Maria, worked like some hopeless serf; he thought of fragile‑minded Vasilissa, tormented by fear; he thought of Danilo, living in shame and worry; and his fists clenched. Indeed, what of Alexei, living in his stolen glory, dooming his rival without a qualm, thinking himself safe—

Perhaps someone should open Alexei's eyes for him!

And would you feel this way if it wasn't for Maria? the prince asked himself frankly.

The answer was yes. For royal injustice is the bitterest, crudest of all, since there's no one strong enough to correct it—save another prince.