As the terrifying force engulfed her, burning, a horrified Ljuba had only time enough to think, I'm dead! But then that force had hurtled by and burst apart, to leave her untouched, and she nearly laughed in her shaken relief. You can't kill me, can you, cousin? You're not quite free of my potion's control yet! While I…
She stared fiercely at him where he sagged, drained, exhausted, and knew that now he was hers.
Yes, and yet… did she really have to destroy him? Ljuba blinked, astonished to once again feel that sudden, unwanted twinge of… love?
Oh, no, not here, not now! It was a silent scream of rage. There's no time for this!
She'd strike him now, mind to mind, conquer him withy out the need for potions or foolish iron pins. She would use this Power to burn out his will and make Finist and Kirtesk her own.
Then, without warning, the blue-grey haze of this plane was swirling up about her, as though it were Earthly fog seized by a terrible wind—but there couldn't be any wind, not in this place of Not-Quite-Real—sweeping over her in glowing waves. Surrounded by the wild, silent whirlings of Power, she couldn't see or hear or feel—she was alone in nothingness.
Finist! What have you done to me?
What was happening? One moment Maria had been in Finist's bed‑chamber, seeing Ljuba about to strike, sure that she was going to die, the next moment Finist had been struggling to his feet, magic swirling wildly about him. Though his body hadn't moved from the bedside, she had still felt him leaving the physical, leaving her, as surely as she'd felt his emotions when the silver chain had been binding them together. She remembered screaming out:
«No, I can't lose you, not so soon!»
Then, too anguished to think clearly, she had thrown the entire force of her love and longing and despair after him, sensing her mind brushing his just for an instant before a terrible pressure seemed to rend body and spirit apart—
And was this death, this strange blue-grey, swirling fog? Surely not. Because, even though she didn't seem to have a proper body, even though she didn't seem to be breathing, she could still feel, she could still hear, she was still she, Maria Danilovna!
Caught in a fresh surge of panic, she glanced wildly around, trying to orient herself. But there weren't any landmarks here. There didn't seem to be anything here, save this eerie fog—
All right. Maria forced herself sternly away from hysteria. If I'm not dead, this must be one of those bizarre magical Realms Finist once mentioned when he—
Finist! Even as she thought that name, the haze about her seemed to clear, and Maria stared in disbelief. «Finist!» Without air to breathe, there couldn't be any sound, but he heard her. Without solid ground beneath her feet, she shouldn't have been able to run to him, but she did—right into his arms. And how wonderful was that embrace, strangely weightless though it was!
«Oh, Finist, my love!» This must be some sort of magical nonvocal speech, she decided, then stopped worrying about it altogether as their lips met in a quick, frantic kiss. Then Finist was drawing back, eyes anguished. «Maria, forgive me, I didn't stop to think‑I didn't mean to pull you here after me!»
«No," Maria protested, «it wasn't you. I did it. Truly. I knew you were leaving your body behind, for my sake. And—and I couldn't bear to think I might be losing you a second time, and — "
«Maria, do you know what you're saying?»
«That… we are attuned?» She stared up at him in dawning comprehension. «That's it, isn't it? Even without the magic of the necklace, we're still attuned.» Maria heard the nervous delight quivering in her words. «I mean, for such a thing as this to happen — "
«Yes, of course, love—but I've got to get you out of here before Ljuba senses you!»
Shaking, Maria felt the prince making a heroic effort to control his magic, heedless of the damage he might be doing to his weakened body. She knew with him that it was going to work after all, she felt with him the proper psychic tingle that was magic stirring through him…
But as quickly as it had come, the Power had drained away again, and Finist was left sagging in Maria's arms. For a moment, Maria found herself sharing his storm of emotions, feeling his fear for her, his despair, his aching weariness—Akh, Finist, my poor dear! — and with it, a tangle of something else, a darkness composed of grief and shame and… lust?
Not for myself, I hope—not like this, anyhow, so very mixed up with guilt and hatred.
And then she tensed, staring.
«No. " Maria wasn't sure whether she'd groaned that aloud or not. But there before her was the object of Finist's hatred:
Ljuba. Ljuba, whose only lust was for power. Ljuba who, untouched by fever-weakness, meant to destroy her cousin. Maria knew it, saw it, felt it.
But what could she do? Ljuba was drawing the raw stuff of magic about her and it was flaring brighter, a deadly aura encircling the sorceress. Her long, golden hair stirred and crackled eerily in that place where there was no wind, no sound; her eyes blazed till they were no longer merely human.
Beside her, Maria could feel Finist trying to gather Power to him, but she knew with a dreadful sort of calm that he could never control it in time, not drained as he was. Ljuba would win, and Finist would die—no, worse, his mind would die, and the empty shell of his body live on—
«I won't let it happen!'' The cry burst from her, tearing through the wild tangle of her emotions, Finist's emotions. «Ljuba, I won't let you do this!»
Her fierce, despairing gaze locked with the sorcerous stare. There was a sharp, dizzying sense of impact, almost as though she'd struck Ljuba a physical blow. Then—a rational corner of Maria's mind insisted that what happened next could only have been caused by that continued link with Finist and the Power around him. And yet surely the force of the love and hope and fear she felt for him was more powerful than any magic. For in that next, stunned instant, Maria found herself looking past the mere chance of luck that was Ljuba's outer beauty, past the confusion that was Finist's love and hatred, looking more deeply and more truly than ever she'd seen anyone before. And what Maria saw: Oh, the poor thing!
Far worse than simple physical abuse was the total lack of love. There was a girl who knew she bore the seeds of darkness in her, yet had no way to fight them, who cried and cried for help, but silently, always silently, because she knew there was no one to aid her, no one to care, no one to trust—
But at last young Ljuba had learned to build a wall about herself and call it strength. She had come to accept the dark within, to welcome it, come to lust for power and for Power, the only things sure never to betray her, the only dungs without the weaknesses that were love or trust or pity‑Maria couldn't stand any more. Blinking back stunned tears, she cried out, «Oh, my dear, no! It isn't like that!» And accidentally, in all innocence, she showed Ljuba to Ljuba.
What was happening? There'd been that sudden locking of their glances, startling but not alarming, though Maria had astonished Ljuba by the force of that magicless will. But now, before Ljuba could even begin to resist, the images were here, flooding over her, overwhelming her, drowning her, the images of herself—
No, not me! I was never like that!
—images of the inner Ljuba, the secret self she'd thought safely locked away since childhood, the piteous, shrivelled being with all her weaknesses, all her fears, so helpless, so lost, so afraid…