The Shining Falcon

Above him, so cruelly far above him, the sky beckoned, the wide, open, free sky. The falconached to be up there, ached with every fiber of his being to be soaring up and out on the wind. But he couldn't move. He was snared, his wings were bound, he was trapped here, helpless amid all this cold, close stone, while within him, he burned with thirst, and the fire—the dry, cruel fire…

It was a hushed and nervous gathering of boyars, there in the royal palace, all of them worrying about the state of their prince's health. Since his sad return to Kirtesk, carried limp and unconscious into his private chambers, the Lady Ljuba had taken charge of him, as was her place as Finist's kinswoman and a healer in her own right, and allowed no one to disturb the prince's rest. Predictably, in the absence of hard fact, the rumors had already begun to fly, among these boyars no less than among the commons.

«He might not recover.»

«I heard his strength has been permanently damaged.»

«I heard he's been crippled.»

«I heard that… it's his mind that's been hurt.»

Old Semyon had been stirring impatiently during all this wild speculation, but that last was just too much for him. He sprang to his feet with an angry cry of: «Enough! Are you boyars, or a pack of old gossips? If you're all so afraid of the Lady Ljuba that none of you dare intrude and learn the truth‑I am not!»

With that, he marched boldly towards the prince's private chambers, hearing the others whispering nervously behind him. Fools! the old man thought sharply.

But Semyon was brought up short, staring in disbelief at the guards who moved to block his path.

«What's this?» he said indignantly. «Stand aside!»

«I'm sorry, my lord. But we are to let no one pass.»

«Nonsense! I have a perfect right to enter the princely chambers, unless Prince Finist himself denies me! Has he? Well? Has he?»

«Uh—no, my lord.»

«Then who dares to stop me?»

The closed door to the prince's bed‑chamber opened slightly. «I do," said Ljuba. «Kindly keep your voice down, boyar. Your prince is asleep.»

For all Semyon's angry words to the others, he had to admit that this new Ljuba, all soft submission gone for the moment, fierce-eyed and positively sorcerous of aspect, was enough to give anyone pause. And for a moment, Semyon found himself wondering if it had been wise to leave Finist in her hands. Then Ljuba was looking directly at him, her eyes so wide and deep… so deep… Semyon shook his head at his foolishness. Who better to tend the prince than someone skilled in the preparation of healing potions?

But why were her eyes so cold? Now that she wasn't staring at him, Semyon found himself fighting down a shudder, and asked hastily, embarrassed at himself, «How is he?»

Ljuba winced, slightly. «Still feverish.»

For a moment, the cold perfection of her control seemed to slip, just enough to let Semyon remember with a shock that this was still, for all her poise, only a very young woman. In sudden compassion, he murmured, «Akh, don't be afraid. I know you're doing your best.»

«Don't pity me!» The words were sharp as a slap, and Semyon flinched. «Go away, old man," Ljuba continued savagely. ' 'Go and tell the others that the prince lives and will recover. Do you hear me? He will recover!»

With that, she slammed the door in his face.

* * *

Alone in the royal bed‑chamber save for the restlessly sleeping Finist, Ljuba fell against a wall and desperately fought back shaken sobs. The strength needed to control Semyon's will, even for that little time, had nearly finished her. But she couldn't let go, not now!

And yet it had all seemed to be going so well. True, she'd been horrified at her first sight of Finist's injuries, prepared to find nothing worse than iron-scratches, just enough to throw off his magical and mental balance, and finding instead those deep, ugly wounds. Had Vasilissa been there by her side, the meddling little idiot would have died. But after that first fright, she'd realized that Finist was not fatally wounded; the iron-gashes, for all their ugliness, weren't so severe. And he wasn't some forest devil, to be poisoned by the mere touch of the metal!

Finist stirred in his sleep, moaning, and Ljuba winced. Everyone of the royal blood had gone through iron-fever at one time or another; it was impossible to live in an iron-oriented society without eventually getting cut by a knife or jabbed by a pin. But no matter how high the initial fever soared, it never lasted long, not unless there was a death-wound to go along with it. And Finist just wasn't that badly injured! What was wrong with him?