The Shining Falcon

«Yeah, but he's got soldiers with him, lots of 'em!»

Alexei bit back an impatient oath. «We've been through this before! Cut down that tree, block their path, attack them from the shelter of the underbrush—they'll be down before they can figure out who's attacking them!»

Yes, added Alexei to himself, and if it doesn't work, if those soldiers manage instead to massacre my gallant band, why then, I become not the bandit chieftain, but a bandits' captive, as noble and refined as can be, and oh-so-grateful for the rescue‑If only I can get these idiots to cut down the damned tree!

Desperate, raging, he snatched an axe from one gape‑mouthed fool and started hacking away at it himself, with more vigor than skill. The others stood, staring, presumably waiting for some forest ogre to rend him limb from limb. But when nothing happened other than Alexei showering them all with flying chips of wood, someone took the axe from him and began silently, and more efficiently, to finish the job.

The falcon, its wings bright in the sunlight, flew, radiant with delight, now and again making sweeping loops in the sky for sheer joy.

She loves me, she loves me, she loves me!

But after a time, reality intruded into his euphoria, and Finist sighed, and circled over forest till he'd found a clearing that held a small, clear pool within it, then swooped down for a landing. «Forest, forgive the intrusion once more," he remembered to say, both aloud and with psychic emphasis. «I shan't be here very long.»

It was probably just as well. Head up, listening to elusive sounds that were just beyond anything physical, Finist frowned, warily letting feathers begin to re-form. The forest was angry at someone, no mistaking that restless stirring, dangerously angry…

But after a moment he nodded, relieved. Although the forest had become instantly aware of his magical presence, that strange, inhuman anger wasn't directed at him, so for now, at least, he could ignore it. The little lake was so clear he could see its pebbly bottom, so still it was as fine as any man‑crafted mirror, and Finist set about his work.

«Semyon. Can you hear me?»

The old boyar, his image clear on the surface of the pool, started. «My Prince! How—ah—how goes it?»

«Oh, well, Semyon! Well indeed!»

«Really!» Semyon beamed. «Is it all settled, then? And so quickly! Will you and she be returning together, or — "

«Hey now, not so fast!» Finist had to laugh. «She's just barely admitted that she—that there's some hope for the two of us!»

«I see.» The boyar's eyes twinkled. «Ah, to be young again!» he murmured. «But, my Prince, how are you surviving in Stargorod?»

Finist grinned. «Well enough. Most of the time I'm falcon. Otherwise… I—ah‑liberated clothing and funding from Svyatoslav. Leaving a properly apologetic note behind, of course. I must remember to send him a regal letter of thanks, prince to prince, when I return to Kirtesk. Which reminds me: Are tilings peaceful at home?»

The boyar understood instantly. «Quite peaceful. No one suspects you're undertaking anything but a—political mission.» His smile widened. «Have no qualms about continuing your courtship.»

Finist hesitated. «What about my cousin?» he asked warily.

Semyon's smile faded. «She… did try‑I mean, your royal cousin did attempt to—to — "

«To spy on me," Finist said coldly. «Did you obey my commands?»

«To the letter, my Prince. I fear the Lady Ljuba hates us all most heartily, but there she is, mirrorless, in her quarters, and there, till you countermand your orders, she will stay.»

Will she? «Semyon, I will check back with you at the next turning of the day. Keep me informed—about everything. Till then, farewell.»

He let the image fade and sat back, staring blankly, suddenly uneasy. «Cousin, now what game are you playing?» This incredible persistence wasn't like her. Could she be jealous? It stretched his imagination almost to the breaking point to picture cool, controlled Ljuba in thrall to any such mundane emotion. And yet, a plaintive cry echoed faintly through his memory, Ljuba's desperate: " I love you!»

Finist shook his head. «Aie, cousin, what am I to do about you?»

«What is that to me?» asked a harsh voice, and the prince let out a startled yelp.

«Ah, my lord leshy. "

«Magician‑man. Why have you returned? For your men?»

The mutable being was, for the moment, nearly as tall as Finist, lean as any predator, face sharp and narrow and green as grass, eyes flickering with an eerie light that in human eyes might have indicated the onset of madness. In a leshy—who knew?

Finist had no intention of staying to debate the subject.