«The Power is in our blood, in our very essence. As long as there is still breath within you, your magic lives.»
And when, a boy drained and weary from his lessons, he'd tried to protest, he had been silenced with a fierce:
«There is no room for weariness in true magic! Your will must always be stronger than your body's weaknesses—or you are no magician!»
But I am, Finist told that stern ghost. He turned his being inward, seeking the heart of his Power, fighting the dizziness that was trying to overwhelm him, desperately summoning up the last shreds of his strength. Heart pounding painfully with the strain, blood roaring in his ears, the prince shouted:
«Boyars, wait!»
Astonished, they stopped, staring at him. Feeling Ljuba frantically trying to silence him, Finist cried, «By all the Powers of Magic, by all the strength of Day and Night and Warm Mother Earth, I swear this vow!» Dead silence fell; even the magicless boyars knew better than to try to interrupt a spell, and Ljuba, for all her fury, wasn't about to risk having unspent Power recoiling on her. Caught in the trance of his own inner Power, Finist continued, blind and deaf and insensible to all but his magic, «By all the force of Life: No woman shall wed me till the spilling of my blood shall be avenged, till she has washed my bloodstained caftan clean of treachery!»
As he felt the hastily fashioned spell come properly to life, locking itself firmly about him, Finist's trance shattered. He fell back into his aching, illness-wracked self, drained, panting, blazing with renewed fever, only now hearing the ghost of his father's final warning:
«But no matter how wondrous your magic may seem, remember this: scorn the physical self too much, weaken your body beyond hope, and Power or no—you die!»
But even now, he still managed to gasp out the shadow of a triumphant laugh. Turning his head to the dazed Ljuba, he added in a savage whisper:
«The caftan must be washed clean. And that, my treacherous cousin, spiller of my blood, you shall never do! Do you hear me, Ljuba? That, you shall never, never do!»
«A temporary setback," the young woman muttered grimly. «Only a temporary setback. The throne will still— Finist!»
But he had already escaped her into exhausted sleep.
Chapter XLII
Lesielo
Giggling, Marfa scurried down the narrow forest path, hearing Stefan laughing and panting somewhere behind her. Of course, she didn't plan to run too fast! She had no intention of outpacing him, not with those lovely thoughts of capture and delicious surrender dancing in her mind. As an old married couple of nearly a year, they were supposed to be somberly working in forest and garden, not cavorting about like a couple of spring‑mad deer‑didn't she, after all, have her hair coiled up on her head in a married woman's braids? But you couldn't be expected to be serious all the time, not when you were young and alive and—
Marfa stumbled to a stop. «Stefan! Stefan, come here. Hurry!»
By the time he caught up to her, she was kneeling beside the crumpled form. «Marfa, what— A woman! But she isn't from the village… Is she dead?»
«N-no. But she's all bruised and scratched, and I think she's got a touch of fever.» Marfa glanced earnestly up at her young husband. «Oh, Stefan, we've got to get the poor thing to shelter right away!»
She ached. Mind and body, she ached, and her throat was so painfully dry that when she tried to groan, no sound came out. But this wasn't the hard forest floor, surely.
Maria opened her eyes in bewilderment, to find a bright-eyed young woman staring down at her. «Where… ?»
«Don't worry. You're safe, now. You're in our house, in the village.» The young woman was cradling her head, letting her drink something that was cool and herbal and very soothing. «There, now. That's better.»
Maria attempted a smile, and drifted right back into sleep.
It was early morning when she awoke, and Maria blinked in confusion, trying to straighten time out in her mind. Had she actually slept through the day? It seemed very possible. At least she felt better now, less weary, less filled with despair.
Warily, she sat up. Sore muscles complained, but the ache wasn't anything she couldn't bear, and after a moment, Maria gingerly swung her legs over the side of the bed-
«Akh, be careful!»
It was the bright-eyed young woman, small and pretty, who'd given her something to drink. Maria frowned, trying to remember… «You were the one who found me, weren't you? I mean, in the forest.»
The young woman nodded. «I almost stepped on you. Nearly scared the life out of me! Thought you were dead-no, don't try to stand up yet!»
«I'm all right now, really.» Maria stretched carefully, wincing at bruises, trying with fierce determination not to think about who had caused them, or of his fate. Instead, she glanced about, finding herself in a small, clean one-room house that reminded her of the farm of her family's exile. Nothing they'd had there, though, had been as lovingly carved and painted as these chairs and table and — «I've pushed you out of your own bed, haven't I?» Maria asked contritely, and the other woman gave her a quick grin.
«It's all right. You needed it more than we did. Besides, it was… kind of fun, Stefan and I snuggling on the floor by the fire!» She blushed. «We… haven't been married all that long, you see. Akh, but here I am, keeping you standing with nothing more than a shift on you! Wait, now…» She rummaged about in a chest for a bit, then came up with Maria's pack. «The clothes you had on-Well, I did my best to wash 'em and mend 'em, but…»
Maria shuddered. «That's quite all right. I… don't want them back.»
The other was looking at her in sudden sympathy. «It was a man tore 'em like that, yes? And gave you those bruises, too? He didn't, ah‑I mean… You know what I mean. He didn't — "
«Rape me?» Maria finished bluntly. «No.» Seeing the unease on the young woman's face, she added, «He wasn't one of your village men, either; you don't have to worry about that. And, at any rate, he's… dead.»
«Well, good! Yes, I mean it! Anyone tried that with me, I'd have the pitchfork in him, or—or the butcher knife!» The small, fierce thing nodded in satisfaction. «That's it! He'd be singing all the high notes in the choir when I was finished with him!» She stopped in sudden dismay. «Oh, now, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to start you crying!»
«I'm not!» Maria gasped between bursts of giggles. «Singing—singing all the high notes, indeed! Thank you! I—I haven't had too much to laugh at lately.» Sobering, she added, «But I'm forgetting my manners. I am…» She stopped at the last moment, remembering caution, and finished lamely, «Maria.»
The other woman merely nodded. Peasant she might be, as her accent and surroundings proclaimed, but that didn't make her either stupid or tactless. «And I'm Marfa. My husband, as you've heard me say, is Stefan. And our village is called Lesielo, and it's under the» — she stumbled over the unfamiliar word — «sovereignty of Finist, Prince of Kirtesk.»
Suddenly Maria's legs wouldn't support her. «Finist. Oh, God, Finist… Am I finally near Kirtesk?»
Marfa was watching her with bright-eyed curiosity. «I knew you were more than you seemed!» she said triumphantly. «What with that pretty silver necklace, and your fine way of speaking‑I knew it!»
«Marfa…»
«Don't worry, I won't betray your secret. Whatever it is.» The last was said with a good deal of hope. But when