«Of course you don't!» said Svyatoslav so hastily Finist knew he'd been wondering just that. Reddening, the older man snapped, «Come, what are you proposing?»
«Prince Svyatoslav, what I mean to do is cast a compulsion‑charm over the documents.»
«And just what does that mean?»
«Simply that whoever actually penned them will‑must‑come to us. If that someone does turn out to be boyar Danilo— Well, my apologies to you for bothering you, and let justice be done. But if that someone is somebody else…» He let his voice trail off suggestively, and saw a flicker of interest in Svyatoslav's wary eyes. «But I can't act without your permission. Will you grant it?»
«You… will swear this is white magic only?»
«Magic is neither white nor black," said Finist softly. «It's a tool, a gift, no more, no less. I won't swear to a falsehood. But I will swear that I'm using that gift for honor, yes.» When Svyatoslav still hesitated, the prince continued impatiently, «Look you, being who and what we are, we both must be interested in supporting the cause of justice. Will you grant me permission to act?»
«I…» For a moment Svyatoslav seemed to have forgotten all about Finist's presence, his eyes seeing only the past. «Danilo had ever been faithful to me," he said after a moment. «Or so I dared believe. To see him suddenly shown to be false… God! I wanted to kill him with my own hands!» The man stopped, controlling his passion with a visible effort. «But now… if there is any chance at all that I was wrong, that he might be proven innocent…» Passion surged up once more in Svyatoslav's eyes, but this time it was the passion of hope. «So be it!» Quickly he flung a night-robe about himself and sprang from his bed. «Prince Finist, do what you must!»
Once decided, Svyatoslav proved himself a man of no patience at all. Groggy courtiers were roused, yawning, from their beds, blinking in bewilderment at Finist. The royal scribes were found, the treasonous documents brought forth. Finist, hastily clothed in a caftan borrowed from the older prince, bright, tousled hair quickly combed into submission, glanced about at his curious, wondering, sleepy-eyed audience, and gave an inner sigh. He'd really rather not have to perform like some court entertainer. But at least I've got Svyatoslav almost trusting me, for the moment. Let me not waste the chance.
Carefully, he narrowed his perceptions to one of the documents he held in his hand, seeing that parchment, only that parchment… But this wasn't going to be so easy. So many people had handled it, leaving psychic traces of themselves behind to confuse things, like so many loose and trailing threads. There was the matter-of-fact grey that could only belong to one of the royal scribes, there was the wildly swirling rainbow bright with fear and rage that must surely have been left by Svyatoslav himself…
Yes, but there was another, very tenuous psychic thread, barely to be sensed, the same shade, almost exactly, as the ink upon the parchment. Finist smiled to himself and began, gently and very, very carefully, to reel in that fragile, floating thread… He'd hooked his fish, as it were, he could feel it, he could feel someone, somewhere, stirring all unaware of the spell, starting dreamily towards the royal palace… The thread was growing stronger as that someone approached, stronger…
And Finist was back in reality, taking deep, steadying lungfuls of air, wiping damp strands of hair from his face, hearing the murmurings of the courtiers all around him. Ah, and here was his catch, not boyar Danilo, certainly not, but a thin, sly little rat of a man, blinking in bewilderment as the last haze of the compulsion-spell faded from him. This was the forger, Finist hadn't the slightest doubt of it. This was the man who was about to prove Danilo Yaroslavovich innocent of treason beyond any question.
Yes, but if I stay here, Svyatoslav may just think I influenced the man's words in some arcane fashion!
Everyone's attention was on the forger; it was ridiculously easy for Finist to wrap himself in his magic and steal quietly away. He shifted quickly to falcon and perched, unseen and unnoted, in the rafters, watching the commotion below him.
Now the little forger was realizing where he was, and whom he faced. Confused, terrified, he stared at his prince like some mouse petrified before a snake.
«Have you ever seen these documents before?» Svyatoslav's voice was a purr.
«No, I—I haven't.»
«Are you sure?»
«No! I—I mean, yes, I don't—I didn't have anything to do with them! They—they're treasonous!»
Svyatoslav tensed. «And how would you know their contents without having read them? You wrote these documents, confess it!»
«No! I — "
«Confess it!»
The forger panicked completely. «Yes—no! I… yes, I… I wrote them.'' White-faced, he stood waiting for his doom to fall. But Svyatoslav wasn't finished with him.
«For whom? Come, speak! For whom did you write them?»
The miserable man hung his head. «I—I don't know. I mean, I—I never saw his face.»
«Liar!» cried Svyatoslav fiercely. «Guards! Take this fool away and have him put to the question!»
That, of course, meant torture. Finist saw the forger pale, and heard him mutter to himself, «I don't owe him any loyalty.» The little man straightened with a sort of desperate, almost hopeless courage. «My Prince, will you spare me if I confess?»
Svyatoslav paused only a moment, then he nodded. «I will. Speak, and you will not be harmed. Who hired you?» The forger hesitated, licking his lips nervously. Then he burst out: «It was Alexei Sergeovich! Boyar Alexei ordered me to write those documents!»
Sleepy, bewildered, frightened, the dazed young boyar had been virtually dragged before the royal presence. Finist looked at him thoughtfully, wondering, because Alexei already looked lost, drawn and wan, and this was even before he'd heard the charges brought against him. So-o, thought Finist, I wasn't wasting my time in visiting you! You do, indeed, seem to have some manner of conscience, Alexei.
«Alexei Sergeovich," Svyatoslav began, «you come before us accused of perjury and the attempt to see an innocent man slain for your profit. Do you confess your guilt?»
A man's own conscience could be a crueler tormentor than any executioner. Without the weight of his newly realized guilt, Alexei, Finist suspected, might have been smooth-tongued and cunning enough to clear himself. But now, off balance, still confused by his sudden awakening, the young boyar hadn't the slightest chance. Instead of framing some clever, ambiguous reply, Alexei stammered, «No, I—I didn't— Those letters — " He lunged blindly at the cringing forger. «You betrayed me! Damn you — "
«Oh, no, Alexei Sergeovich," said Svyatoslav softly, «I think this time you are the one to be damned.» And as the young man froze, staring, stunned at the realization that he had just admitted his own guilt, the prince continued, voice trembling with rage, «I cannot punish you as I would. What you've done is not, strictly speaking, treason against the crown. But I will not have such—such foulness as you in my lands, either! Alexei Sergeovich, hear my decree:
«Within three days, you must be clear of those lands, alone and friendless. May every man's hand be turned against you! And should you be found within the boundaries of Stargorod once the three days are past, your life shall be the price!»
And so, thought Finist, refusing to feel the slightest pity, farewell, Alexei.
Now came the pardon for Maria's father, that the boyar Danilo Yaroslavovich «be restored, without penalty or fault, to all his former rights, rank and privileges.»