But even more incongruous in their plain, honest greys and browns were the reasons he sat here—the stream of petitioners, farmers, artisans, common folk, come to him with problems of farms or taxes or inheritances. Suddenly Finist tensed, feeling a faint psychic stirring, a feather's touch brushing his consciousness: Ljuba. His cousin must be watching the proceedings, as she often did, through a magic-treated mirror. It was her right, after all, as a member of the royal family. And even this sometime interest in the outside world, Finist supposed, must be healthier for a young woman than that self‑imposed semiexile of hers spent in what was generally unproductive arcane study.
Not that she would be finding much of interest in peasant affairs. Elegant enough for you? Finist asked her silently, sarcastically, though of course, she couldn't hear him.
Forget Ljuba. Now, to business.
In the slow hours that followed, Finist counselled where he could, occasionally calling on this or that boyar for advice, making those decisions he thought just, using his magic to determine honesty or falsehood—not that there were many who'd dare lie to a magician—and wondered, deep within him, if the line of supplicants would never end. Thank Heaven, this day came only once a month!
He could, of course, have simply declared the audience at an end at his whim. But his father had never done such a thing, not when there might be someone genuinely in need of his help, and neither, Finist conceded reluctantly, would he.
At last the final group of petitioners approached the throne. Finist leaned forward, studying them. No farmers, these straight-backed, leather‑clad men. Woodsmen, he guessed, fearless souls from one of the small villages that dared nestle within the boundaries of the vast forest which covered much of the land, the forest that was still full of the Old Magic. Finist raised an eyebrow. It must be some great problem indeed to bring such proud, self-sufficient folk all the way to his court.
But right now they didn't look particularly proud, shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes never quite meeting his gaze.
«Well?» prodded Finist at last. «What would you? Come, speak.»
That merited him a quick, wary glance from the lean, middle-aged man who seemed the group's leader. And Finist drew a startled gasp at the sorrow he glimpsed in those weary eyes.
«Come," the prince repeated, more gently. «Speak.»
The weatherbeaten face reddened. «It's just…» He glanced pointedly at the bored boyars. «Eh, what it is, is that we need your magic, my prince. But we… uh…»
«You'd just as soon not have everyone here knowing your troubles," Finist concluded. Intrigued, the prince studied the man for a silent moment, wondering… Royalty always has its enemies; he wasn't so naive as to believe he mightn't have some secret foes. Yet he sensed no treachery in the man, only that awkward, painful sorrow. Eyes half‑closed, arm outstretched, Finist quested with his mind for the aura of hidden weaponry on the group, hunting for the cold, cruel tang which meant iron—that metal most deadly to magic and magicians—for any other concealed weapons… Nothing.
«So be it.» Finist got to his feet in a swirl of robes, moving smoothly down the dais' narrow stairway, ignoring the stirrings of surprise from his boyars. «The rest of you, wait here. You» — pointing at the sad-eyed man—
«come with me.»
The Ruby Chamber was a much smaller audience chamber, less formal despite the elegance of silken rugs imported from the East and the glowing red walls delicately ornamented in patterns of gold. It was one of Finist's favorite meeting rooms, since it was one of the few to boast the luxury of a wide window, reminding him comfortably of the sky's freedom just outside. It also had, much to his relief, no cumbersome throne, only a relatively simple chair of polished wood thickly padded with red brocade and raised on only a few token steps. Here he sat, watching the woodsman's silent unease.
«Now," Finist said firmly when it seemed the silence would go on forever. «Your story. First, you are…»
«Feodor, my Prince, son of Igor.»
«So. Talk to me, Feodor Igorovich.»
«I—it's about a wolf," the man began.
«A wolf. You'd hardly be wasting my time about some animal you could hunt yourself, now, would you? What's the matter, then? Is this wolf rabid?»
«No, no, nothing like that.» Feodor's voice shook. «The—the wolf is—one of us. Stefan. Stefan has—has become a wolf.» At Finist's startled, skeptical stare, he added fiercely, «It's true! I— Stefan's my son! I know him! You have to help him, my Prince, you must!»
«Slowly, slowly!» Finist wasn't quite so willing to believe, not so quickly. «How could such a transformation have come about? Was your son playing with dangerous secrets?»
«My God, no! Stefan would never— He's a good boy, my Prince, he'd never think of dabbling in‑in— He wouldn't!»
«Softly, now. Tell me exactly what happened.»
Feodor sighed. «All I know for certain is that one night Stefan disappeared. We hunted for him all the next day, but couldn't find a trace of him. The next night…» The man swallowed convulsively. «The next night the wolf appeared: Stefan. Every night since then, he's prowled the village. He—hasn't hurt anyone yet, or even taken any livestock; he only roams around the village palisade. But— but surely it's only a matter of time before he—before he — " Feodor choked, and couldn't go on.
«Before he forgets he's human," Finist said softly.
It was possible, it was very possible.
He shook his head impatiently. «Akh, Feodor, there doesn't have to be anything magical about this! Tell me, does Stefan have himself a girl?»
The peasant hesitated. «Marfa, Boris' daughter. They'd had a fight, Stefan and Marfa; that's why he ran off. But — "
«There you are! Stefan might even have run here, to Kirtesk. I'll have my guards — "
«No!» Feodor, in his distress, didn't even notice he'd interrupted his prince. «The wolf! What about the wolf?»
«It's probably only a youngling cast out from its pack.»
«No! I know my son! I saw the wolf! Those aren't the eyes of a beast, they're the eyes of my son! Please, you're the only one who can help him. I—I'll do whatever you command. Only please, help my son!»
Uneasy, Finist stepped down from his chair, moving to stare thoughtfully out the window. Could it be? There was magic enough in the forest, Heaven knew, strange beings and Power older than anything he wielded.
No, this was ridiculous! It was probably just as he'd said, a lovers' quarrel—
But what if it wasn't? What if, somehow, a young man had been bound into beast form, trapped till he came to forget his very humanity? No magician could be free of that nightmare…
«Yes," Finist said. «If it lies within my power, I will help.»
Of course, Finist had no need to waste time in riding all that way back with Feodor and the others. He had a much swifter means of travel, and so that night a silvery falcon sped towards the forest and the village within it.
Village? thought Finist. It was little more than a few huts sheltered within a palisade of wooden stakes, there in the middle of a clearing. Still, the prince conceded, these folk were his subjects, as surely as any of the nobility.