«I sit in judgment in the court,
Or fly with shining wings for sport.
The sunlight is no foe to me.
Day or night, I'm equally free.
I walk, or fly, or, sporting, swim.
I play with storm winds for a whim.
Sometimes one form, sometimes another,
I call the leshy‑man my brother.
On foot, on wing, I am the same.
Come, tell me, if you can, my name!»
She finished with a grand flourish, although she was thinking wryly, Akh, what dreadful poetry! Still, considering that she had made it up on the spur of the moment, maybe the thing wasn't so bad—particularly since it had made the rusalka sink down into the water till only her green eyes showed through the tangle of pale hair, eyes blinking quickly in confusion.
«There's no such creature, human!»
«No?» Maria forced a smile. «Believe me, rusalka, there is! Why, I, myself have seen… ah… it.»
«But nothing walks and flies and swims!»
Maria, still smiling, said nothing. The rusalka eyed her suspiciously for a moment, then continued, almost to herself:
«It must be magic. No mere human could befriend a leshy!» The rusalka gave a hiss of impatience. «Yes, but no magical being rules three of the four elements! And no magical being can walk by day and night and take no harm! Aie, impossible, impossible!»
«Are you giving up, then?»
«No! No!» There was tense silence for a time, then Maria heard her opponent muttering, over and over, «A being that walks and flies and swims!» The rusalka broke off» abruptly, glaring at Maria. «There is no such creature!»
«Ah, but there is!»
«No!» The rusalka's eyes were ablaze with savage frustration. «There is no such creature! This is a lie you tell, only a lie!»
«It's no lie.»
«It is! It is! A creature that walks and flies and swims— Bah! Your riddle has no answer! You cheated, you cheated! You've doomed yourself and forfeited the game and — "
«Are you finished?» asked Maria mildly. «There is an answer, rusalka. Would you care to hear it?»
«If you would live, speak!»
«The answer is a—a 'mere human,' as you put it — "
«No!»
«Yes. Rusalka, the answer to my riddle is: Finist, Prince of Kirtesk.» She saw the lake-woman draw back with a hiss, heard the others stir uneasily, murmuring among themselves, «The magician, of course, the magician…» and added wryly, «I see you know him.»
«We know," said her opponent shortly. «We should have remembered. You have won. Go.»
With that, they dove into the lake with smooth, silent grace, one after the other, and the water closed behind them, still as glass. Stunned by the suddenness of it, hardly daring to believe the ordeal was over, Maria backed away from the lake, wary at first, then gave up any pretense of caution and simply turned to run—
Right into arms that caught her roughly and held her fast.
Chapter XXXIX
The Heir Apparent
«Maria!»
She was in peril, he knew it! But his body wouldn't obey him! He couldn't move, couldn't go to her, couldn't even remember any magic that might help her, he couldn't do anything at all but suffer this dreadful certainty…
«My Prince…»
The words seemed to be coming from a hundred versts away.
«My Prince, can you hear me?»
He knew that voice… Dimly, he seemed to realize that he knew that voice… And Finist began to fight his way up through layer after layer of fever-haze.
Semyon sat anxiously by the royal bedside, watching his prince struggle against who knew what invisible terrors.
«My Prince," he repeated. «Can you hear me? Do you recognize me?»
The amber eyes opened the barest of cracks, looking up at him vaguely. But then their vacant gaze sharpened. «Semyon.»
It had been the barest whisper of sound, but the old boyar felt a rush of relief sweep through him. Akh, my poor Prince! At least the fever hasn't damaged your mind! «What is it?» he asked gently. «Something's been disturbing you. What is it?»
Finist seemed to be struggling against invisible bonds, straining to speak, his fever-brightened eyes frantic. «I… can't…» «Boyar!»
Semyon started, and turned guiltily to face the angry Ljuba. «Lady, I — "
«I allowed you in here only under the agreement that you'd do nothing to disturb my cousin's rest! And yet here you are, causing him such distress— Hush, now, cousin," she added in a sudden croon. «Rest, my dear. No, no, don't try to talk! Just rest. Drink this… that's right… and rest.»
To Semyon's bewildered eyes, it seemed almost as though Finist had been fighting Ljuba. But that had been the fever, surely, for now he was sinking into sleep. Sleep, the boyar told himself firmly, was what the poor youngster needed the most. He hesitated despite Ljuba's patent impatience, looking down at the drawn, flushed face, heart aching with mingled pity and fear, then reached out an impulsive hand to gently smooth strands of shining hair back from Finist's face.
«Boyar. " It was a warning, and Semyon sighed.
«Yes, lady. I'm leaving now.» But he stopped, and turned to her. «Lady, this may seem to be in dubious taste. But… that terrible fever… He… seems to be weakening with every day, and…» Semyon bit his lip, hating what he must say. «For the sake of the land, the council must know this: Is our Prince going to recover?»
«Am I God, that I should know that?» she snapped. «Go away, old man! I'm doing all I can!»
«Lady, please. We must know. Will Finist recover?»
To his shock, he saw genuine fear flicker in Ljuba's eyes. «I… don't know," she whispered. «I've never seen a fever burn like this. I truly don't know.»
The other boyars had been waiting for him. Now, as Semyon wearily entered the Ruby Chamber, they all sprang to their feet, assaulting him with questions:
«Did you see him?»
«Did he know you?»
«What about the fever? Is his fever any lower?»
«Akh, boyars, please.» Semyon sank to a chair, feeling very old. «Give me a chance.»
There was silence in the chamber for a time. And then one voice asked quietly, «Is our Prince going to die?»
«I pray to God he is not.»
«But you don't know.»
«I— No.» Semyon took a deep breath. «Boyars, I never thought to have to say this. I am old, our Prince is young, I never thought I… might outlive him, but… The time has come to discuss the problem of the succession.»
Stunned silence fell once more, at least for a moment. Then Semyon sat back and listened for a time to the storm of debate raging all about him. Prim-faced boyar Andrei, elegant in dull red velvet‑matching the decor, thought Semyon—seemed to be winning.
«But we can't go against the proper order of things!» he was saying. «If Prince Finist dies without an heir— which God forbid, of course—then his uncle inherits the throne.»
«Prince Vasili," muttered someone from the rear of the room, and Andrei blinked and continued, «Why, naturally, Prince Vasili!»
«Monk Vasili, you mean.»
«Well, yes, he may have taken monastic orders, that's true enough, but he's a good, kind, gentle man, and I'm sure — "
«That his reign would be a disaster," finished Semyon, waving to silence Andrei's reply. «Boyars, let us face facts. Good, kind, gentle men tend to make terrible rulers. There are enough historical examples to prove that point! Granted, Vasili was trained in the proper princely studies, but said training was a long time ago. He's been in that monastery, shielded from secular life, for almost as many years as our Prince has been alive.» Semyon paused, letting his words sink in. «Do we really want to put an unworldly monk on the throne of Kirtesk?»