Gigglings and gossipings and childish secrets… fragments of warm memory raced through Maria's mind, and she smiled faintly. Although warm milk was the last thing she wanted right now, the young woman said gently, «Of course, love. Come, sit here beside me.»
Lissa had poured the milk into two goblets. «To happiness," she toasted diffidently.
«To happiness," Maria echoed willingly, and drank. She stopped, puzzled. Lissa, who'd been watching her intently, straightened.
«What's wrong, Maria? Is it too sweet?»
«Not sweet enough! Are you sure this milk is fresh?»
«Oh, it is, it is! Look, I've brought honey to sweeten it… There. Is that better?»
She looked so concerned that Maria could only sigh and drain the goblet. «There, now. Finish yours, and we'll… I'll…»
«Maria?»
«Odd… Suddenly I'm so sleepy! I… can't seem to…»
«Hush, dear.» Vasilissa was moving around her, helping her out of her clothing and into bed. «Sleep, Maria, sleep well.»
«This—this is… silly… I…»
But she couldn't fight the heavy tide a moment longer. Her eyes closed, and Maria let the dark ocean sweep over her…
For a long while, Vasilissa stood frozen, staring, heart pounding. Dear Heaven, was Maria all right? Was she breathing regularly?
«Yes…»
It was a sigh of relief. She'd never prepared a sleeping potion before; that sort of thing was usually Maria's task. She hadn't been quite sure the dosage had been correct. Yes, and then, when Maria had questioned the taste of the drugged milk… Vasilissa had been all but ready to confess, to beg her sister's pardon. But somehow she'd managed to hold out.
Of course she had: Maria's soul was at stake. And for Maria's sake, she would be brave. Suddenly obsessed with a need for haste, Vasilissa let her goblet fall and snatched up the bundle she'd brought. Oh, but the angel would be so proud of her! The angel had wanted her to use simple nails set in wood, barely enough to tear at the demon's skin. She'd sworn the bite of cold iron would be enough to confuse his mind and magic, and make him flee back to his demonic home.
Vasilissa smiled. How much more effective would the demon-trap be since she'd used, instead of petty little furniture nails, good, strong spikes, horseshoe nails, stolen from the estate's stables? With one last glance at her deeply sleeping sister, the young woman hurried to the window and began to prepare. Maria's window was the exact same size as the one in her own bedroom; she had been able to work out the precise measurements she needed, and had even had a chance to try this out once there already.
There. It was done. The window was barred by a crisscross of wood, laths studded with horseshoe nails and jammed crosswise into the frame, the iron spikes pointing out into the night, invisible in the darkness. Vasilissa gathered up all traces of her visit, took one last, lingering glance at Maria, then stole quietly out of the room. Soon she would know if she'd succeeded. Soon she'd know if Maria was safe and the demon banished—forever.
It was a strange time to come visiting, Finist admitted to himself, past the midnight hour, nearer to morning than tonight. But Maria just might still be awake… At any rate, he didn't think he could bear to wait a whole day through till the next nightfall to straighten out things between them.
Danilo's estate crouched like some vaguely seen sleeping beast in the moonless darkness, and even with his falcon-keen vision, Finist had to strain to pick out the shape of Maria's window. But there it was, and he wasn't going to waste a moment more! Finist soared silently towards the window on outspread wings, planning a smooth swoop that would—
No, something was wrong! He sensed a wave of hatred, the cruel, cold blaze of iron. Frantically, Finist tried to pull out of his dive, but it was already too late. He cried out his pain as iron tore into him. For a terrible moment, he thought he'd been fatally impaled; then, desperate, he managed to wrench himself free. Wild with agony, bright feathers stained and torn, Finist fought to stay airborne. The iron, the cold, burning iron, beat at his mind, driving away clear thought, driving away humanity. No longer rational, the falcon gave one last, despairing mental cry:
Maria! Maria, save me! Kirtesk— Seek Me‑My love! Save me!
And then he lost all hold on his human self. The wounded falcon flew wildly away, lashed by pain, knowing only that it must reach safety, it must reach home, home!
Chapter XXX
The Falcon
Ljuba sprang to her feet, frantic and confused. She hadn't meant to fall asleep, but her magic-weary body had betrayed her. God, how long had she been unconscious, while who knew what had been happening in Stargorod? The potion— No, only a gummy residue was left, nothing that could be frozen into a mirror. Ljuba began a frantic search, hurling aside clothing, jewelry, everything, hunting for anything with a reflective surface, anything that would let her know about Finist. What if something had gone wrong? What if he was—
Ah! She straightened, holding an elegant brooch set with a clear crystal, a small thing but perhaps large enough… Someone was beating at her barred door, Ljuba was dimly aware of that—evidently she'd been asleep long enough to worry people—but right now the mirror-spell was more important than setting some fool's mind at ease.
Finist was no longer in Stargorod; that much she knew right away. Then, where… ? For a desperate time, Ljuba couldn't find a trace of him, not the slightest hint of his aura, for a desperate time she had to fight down her growing fear lest she lose the scanning image altogether.
«Finist, where are you? Where are you?»
Wait… There was something… not so much seen as felt: a wild, confused tangle of pain and bewilderment and sheer, mindless terror, a bird's emotions—
No. Not quite a bird. Not quite human, either. Ljuba moaned in horror, but just then—
«Lady.» Semyon was in the chamber with her. They must have forced open the door; lost in the concentration-trance, she hadn't heard a thing. Ljuba supposed she should feel something of gratitude that they'd thought to worry about her, but right now she didn't have time for this nonsense, and—oh, curse them! Curse them all! She'd lost her hold on the image of the frantic, pain-wracked falcon!
Just at that moment, an enraged Semyon, seeing only that she'd dared disobey a royal command, snatched the brooch from her hand. Without thinking, Ljuba whirled and slapped him hard across the face.
«You old fool! I had him—get out of my way!»
He stood rigidly, blocking her. «I've told you, lady. The prince ordered — "
«The prince, yes, that's what this is all about! Finist needs me! No, curse you, I'm not being hysterical! He's been hurt, hurt by iron, he's lost in falcon-form, and I doubt he'll have the strength to make it all the way back to the royal palace! Semyon, if I don't reach him quickly and bring him back to himself, Prince Finist may be lost forever! Now, get out of my way!»
There was pain with every wing-beat, pain with every breath… The falcon no longer had a memory of a time without pain, but to fail now would be to die; dimly it knew that, and struggled on. A great object was beginning to loom on the horizon. A mountain? The bird‑mind could understand it only as some sort of strangely hued mountain. But something seemed to whisper, city, though the concept had no meaning to the falcon; Kirtesk; and then, Home.
Home. The falcon quickened its wing beats, hunting for whatever air currents might carry it more swiftly, no longer soaring over forest, but over open space, the fields that surrounded Home. But now the fickle currents were failing it, now the falcon's strength was failing, too. Struggling against the suddenly heavy air, it made one last valiant attempt to remain in flight. Then, with a sharp, despairing cry, it began to fall, spiralling helplessly down and down, at the last possible moment managing to use its aching wings to brake its fall as it landed amid tall grass in a crumpled heap of feathers, and lay still.