The bird-seller, a weatherbeaten man whose leathery skin was crossed and crisscrossed with faint white scars‑mementos from countless beaks and talons—stared at him blankly. «M'lord, I got all sorts a' birds here. Got pretty little singin' birds for the ladies, hawks for the gentles, even got an eagle. None of 'em got names, though.» His eyes were wary. «And ye said ye didn't want a whole bird, that it?»
Danilo sighed. «I want," he said, very carefully, «the feather of Finist the falcon. No more, no less. Can you help me?»
«Sorry, m'lord. Yer pardon, but I don't know what yer talkin' about.»
«Never mind, man. Good day.»
Danilo walked on, trying to ignore the curious stare following him, thinking dryly, He doesn't know what I'm talking about, eh? I don't know what I'm talking about!
By now he'd spoken to every dealer of birds in all of Kotina, and managed only to convince them all that the boyar must be quite out of his mind.
«Maria," Danilo murmured aloud, «I hate to disappoint you, but I think this 'Finist' of yours is nothing more than a fantasy!»
«Is it?» asked a harsh, crackling voice. «Is it indeed?»
The boyar whirled. Before him stood a bent, mysterious figure hidden completely in a hooded cloak that looked as though it had been hastily cobbled from every scrap of cloth in Kotina. «You know of Finist the falcon?» Danilo asked warily, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the face hidden beneath that bizarre hood.
«Oh, I do, I do indeed! And here is his feather!»
Danilo gasped. The strange figure held out what had looked like a common bird's feather—until it caught the sunlight. Then—how it gleamed, shining bright silver, splendid as something from the forge of a master metal-smith. Stunned, the boyar let the gorgeous thing be put into his hand, hearing the figure give an odd, anxious little laugh.
«It is to be a present for your daughter—yes, I overheard you—a present for your daughter, Maria. Come, take it to her, the feather of Finist the falcon.»
«But the price — "
«No price! Take it home to your daughter as a gift from me!»
Danilo, bewildered, glanced down at the shining feather in his hand. But the sun had gone behind a cloud, and all the magical glow was gone. The boyar glanced quickly up again, with a cry of «Wait! Who are you?»
The stranger was already gone, vanished into the market crowd as though into thin air.
He had agonized long and hard over giving his daughter something that seemed so blatantly magical. But, Danilo decided reluctantly, he had promised her the feather of Finist the falcon. And the look on Maria's face, that compound of open amazement and sheer, delighted wonder, was almost worth all his doubts.
Vasilissa, cradling her father's presents in her arms, stared dubiously at Maria's prize. Now in shadow, it really did look like the drabbest of feathers. «Is that… thing what you really wanted, Maria?»
«Yes.» Maria didn't know why she'd said that; yet it was true. «Yes," the bemused young woman repeated, looking down at the feather. «Somehow I really think it is.»
Maria sent her well‑meaning but fussy servants away, and sat, alone, on the edge of her bed, still completely dressed for all that the hour was late, turning the silvery feather over and over in her hand, watching it glitter in the candlelight, shivering a little at this overlapping of dream and reality.
That dream… Maria couldn't remember all of it, only that there had been a mysterious young man in it, vaguely seen, yet strikingly handsome. In that odd, unquestioning way of the dreamer, she hadn't wondered about the fact that something her sleeping self had known to be magic had been shimmering about him most alarmingly. And yet she hadn't been alarmed.
Maria frowned, trying to remember details. His hair had been of a strange hue, so fair as to be nearly true silver, just the shade of this remarkable feather. And he'd said something to her… about seeking the feather of Finist the falcon.
Whomever or whatever that might be.
But his voice… There'd been something so oddly familiar about it, so teasingly familiar…
«Finn!» said Maria.
The dream-figure's voice had been Finn's. Maria reddened to think how handsome she'd dreamed him. And magical, too. But was it really only her imagination? It had all seemed so real, and— Oh, nonsense, dreams were nothing more than fantasies!
Were they? Then how explain the reality of this shining feather? And how explain her certainty that she was suddenly on the edge of wonder?
Poised just outside Maria's window in the warm spring night, Finist waited with ever‑mounting tension. Call it! he urged her silently. Oh, Maria, call my name!
There had been more to the dream, Maria remembered. Once she actually held the feather, she was supposed to call the name of the falcon. Bemused, the young woman turned the glinting feather over in her hand. «Finist?» she said tentatively. «Finist the falcon, I, uh, summon you.»
The unlatched shutters slammed open. A wild wind swirled through the room, pulling at her clothes and hair, tearing the feather from her hand. Maria bit back a scream as a falcon, a silvery falcon clutching a golden cloth in its talons, dove smoothly into the chamber. Once it circled the room, twice, three times, then came to a landing before the window. As Maria stared in disbelief and wonder, the gleaming form seemed to grow, to alter, though a sudden swirling of silver mist kept her from seeing what… Then the mist was gone, and the falcon with it. The shining-haired stranger of her dream stood before her, dressed in a most splendid caftan of gold-worked silk. For a moment, they regarded each other in silence. Then
Maria recovered her senses enough to gasp, «Who are you?»
The stranger swept down in a deep, courtly bow. «Why, Finist the falcon, of course," he told her, and smiled.
Chapter XXIV
Surprises
You fool!
Alone in her chambers, the servants having fled her rage, Ljuba paced restlessly, berating herself for want of any other victim. She had let Finist go his own way, she had been so sure that if she simply left him alone, he'd quickly tire of peasant squalor and stupidity— But he hadn't tired. For all that she had surprised many a look of honest lust for her in his eyes, for all her attempts to build up an image of a chastised, dutiful, loving young woman, he'd spurned her. He'd gone his own way, all right, right out of the palace, without so much as a word to her!
Finist had returned to his little peasant slut, and as though that wasn't enough, he'd left Semyon to hold the throne for him: Dull Semyon. Honest Semyon. Semyon, who, with his smiles and politeness and sheer, deliberate, calculated stubbornness, was going to drive her mad.
And did Finist really think he would get away with his amorous intrigues? Did he really think she would let him insult her like this?
Ljuba glanced quickly about to be sure no servants lingered, then cast off the protective drape from a precious mirror. For a moment she hesitated, struck by the memory of how her last magical spying had exhausted her. But then she caught herself staring fearfully at her reflection like some simpering little idiot terrified of consequences. Well, damn those consequences!
It had been a long, wearisome search. Ljuba had to struggle just to focus at all on forest that resented her intrusion. And she couldn't help but remember that wild-eyed, mocking forest demon. She'd been lucky to locate Finist the last time without rousing demonic wrath. But what if he‑it—sensed what she was trying to do, and attacked her? She knew how to deal with psychic assaults from other humans, yes, but if the attack came from the forest itself, the Old Magic that was so terrifyingly uncontrollable…