«Had to…» Alexei insisted. «Had to remove you…»
«And are you proud of what you've done? Traitor, do you think yourself safe from me? Do you think yourself safe from justice ?''
«Go away," moaned Alexei. «Go away…»
«Sleep no more, ambitious fool! Hear me: I shall haunt
you, night by night, I shall haunt you till you confess you crime. Traitor, sleep no more!»
Finist had pushed too hard. Alexei awoke with a wild cry, so suddenly he nearly caught the prince. But by the time the servant had managed to spring to his feet, Finist was gone, and all the two alarmed men saw were shadows; all they heard were the sounds of wings.
A good beginning, thought Finist, glancing back.
Of course, any boyar cold-blooded enough to let an innocent man die for his own gain wasn't going to be broken by one little foul dream. Nor had Finist expected it.
But there just might be a chance of wearing Alexei down.
There wasn't. On his second midnight visit, Finist found the boyar's room barred both by holy relics—which might have stopped some evil spirit, but not a mortal magician— and, more alarmingly, by armed guards.
Alexei, it seemed, was no fool.
And I don't have the time to wait him out. Bah, I should have known this wouldn't work. I'll have to try a different approach.
Oh, indeed. But the only other approach was one with which he wasn't too happy; he didn't care for the fact that Svyatoslav's fear of magic had spread all over Stargorod. Still, like it or not, he was going to have to pay that suspicious prince a visit after all.
With a sigh that sounded odd, coming from a falcon, Finist took flight once more, headed towards the many‑domed royal palace, the gold paint ornamenting the roof glowing palely in the moonlight, a background against which the falcon's silvery feathers disappeared nicely.
The window of Svyatoslav's bedchamber was far too narrow for any human to enter, but a falcon could and did squirm through. Shifting silently to man, shivering in the sudden chill of being abruptly featherless, Finist glanced quickly around the dim, starkly furnished room, ready to take off again if someone spotted him. But there was no one here save Svyatoslav, not a sound save the man's soft breathing. Aside from the great, canopied bed, there was nothing in the room except the ubiquitous clothes chest, the type of thing everyone used, and a few elegant, thick-piled carpets, wonderfully warm to Finist's bare feet. No servants, of course. Anyone as suspicious as Svyatoslav was hardly about to risk having even the most loyal of servants snaring his room with him.
Naturally, there were armed guards just outside; Finist could sense their presences easily. But they were safely on the other side of that old-fashioned doorway, the sort so low they'd have to enter one at a time and bent nearly double. The prince grinned at that, and moved softly through the darkness to the head of the bed, gently pulling aside the curtain.
He was indeed no young man, this Svyatoslav, though not as old as Finist had pictured him. But the harsh lines of suspicion etched into the thin face gave the illusion of greater age, made him look drawn and cruel. For a moment Finist hesitated, uncertain.
But this was neither the time nor the place for delay. Quickly Finist moved to the clothes chest, rummaging about as silently as he could until he found a heavily embroidered cloak that fit him reasonably well. Wrapping its folds about himself for warmth and modesty, the prince drew back a nonthreatening distance from the royal bed and coughed gently till Svyatoslav began to stir.
«Prince Svyatoslav," Finist murmured, then repeated the name more emphatically, and the man sat bolt upright, staring. Before Svyatoslav could even begin his shout of alarm, Finist added hastily, «I'm quite unarmed," and let the cloak fall open to prove it.
Shock does odd things. The first thing Svyatoslav thought to say was an indignant «That's my cloak!»
«Ah, yes. Forgive me.» Finist caught it about himself once more. «The room is rather chilly.»
«But who—how — "
He shot a quick, desperate look towards the door, and Finist hurried to assure him, «No, no, your guards haven't betrayed you! I came in through the window.»
«Do you think me a fool? No man could — "
«I could. As a falcon.»
Dawning comprehension lit Svyatoslav's eyes. «Prince Finist!» he gasped, then gasped again, hastily signing himself, because, of course, the saying of Finist's name aloud finally broke the disguise-spell and rid him of being Finn. «The sorcerer!»
«No, not exactly. Magician, rather.» The prince bowed as formally as he could under the circumstances, clutching the cloak about himself. «Yes, I am Finist, Prince of Kirtesk. But, my word and honor upon it, I'm not here to do you harm, magically or physically.»
«Then why are you here? Why this unorthodox invasion?»
«I'm sorry. But I couldn't exactly have appeared in your audience chamber, now, could I?»
Svyatoslav had the good grace to look abashed. True enough, had Finist contrived to enter there as plain Finn, he would have been dragged off by guards before he'd had a chance to open his mouth. As Finist, he would have been risking his neck, magic or no, because alone, with no retainers, he would almost certainly have ended up either as Svyatoslav's «guest» till some royal ransom had been paid, or‑more likely, judging Svyatoslav's fears—bound to a stake as a sorcerer.
«I concede the point," said Svyatoslav flatly. «But now, I repeat, why are you here?»
Finist drew a wary breath. «There's something I feel we really must discuss. It's about one Danilo Yaroslavovich.»
Svyatoslav tensed at the sound of that dangerous name. But he gestured grimly for Finist to continue. And, doing credit to his royal training, he heard Finist out without once shouting for help or snatching for a weapon or holy item. But it was only too clear that he didn't believe a word Finist said.
There was a moment's chill silence when the prince had finished. And then Svyatoslav asked bluntly, «Why should you care? The man means nothing to you.»
«But justice does. Prince Svyatoslav, boyar Danilo is still loyal to you. He always was loyal. I know it.»
«Through your… magic?» It was delicately said.
«Ah, yes, but surely you can't let the man suffer when there's no proof he — "
«There was proof.» Svyatoslav's voice was ice.
«The documents. But did he write them? Did he actually write them?»
«Of course he did!»
«I wonder…» Finist hesitated, trying his best to be tactful. «Prince Svyatoslav, I can understand your shock and anger at the thought of betrayal — "
«Of treason, dammit!»
«Of treason. But… in all the excitement, perhaps certain paths were left untrodden.»
«Meaning?»
«Your royal scribes must be like mine in that they keep in their records all the court correspondence.»
«Of course they do! What of it?»
«Why, surely there are other letters written by the boyar — "
«There are! But those treasonous documents were written by Danilo! I know his hand! And, yes, I did have them checked against other samples of the man's writing. There could be no mistake!»
Finist sighed. «Forgers?» he suggested gently, and saw by the man's uneasy squirm that Svyatoslav, in his rage, hadn't even considered such a possibility. «Forgers can be remarkably accurate, you know.»
«Out with it, man! What are you saying?»
«Simply this: Prince Svyatoslav, I believe I can prove once and for all who actually wrote those damning documents.»
«By magic.»
«Yes. Harmless magic. I will swear to that on whatever holy items you require. That's right," Finist added wryly, «I really can touch such things; I don't vanish in a cloud of smoke at contact.»