Magic's price

by Mercedes Lackey

  Vanyel's first impression was of fragility. Stefen was slight; had he been a girl, he'd have been called “delicate.” He was a little shorter than Vanyel, and as slim. That didn't matter, though - Vanyel could tell that Stef's appearance was as deceptive as his own. Stefen was fine-boned, yes, but there was muscle over that bone; tough, wiry muscle.

  I wouldn't care to take him on in a street fight, Van observed, eyes half-closed as he studied the boy. Something tells me he'd win.

  Dark auburn hair crowned a triangular face; one composed, at first impression, of a pair of bottomless hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and the most stubborn chin Van had ever seen.

  He looks like a demented angel, like that painting in the High Temple of the Spirit of Truth. The one that convinced me that knowing too much truth will drive you mad. . . . Vanyel watched carefully as Stef listened to Medren's plans. Once or twice, the boy nodded, and some of that wavy hair fell into his eyes. He brushed it out of the way absently, all his attention given to his roommate.

  He was tense; that was understandable. Vanyel was very glad that he had chosen to keep himself out of the way now. The boy was under quite enough pressure without the added stress of Herald Vanyel's presence. Van was quite well aware how much he overawed most of the people he came into contact with - that gardener this morning was the exception. Most folk reacted the way that young Bardic apprentice had on the way over here - the kind of mix of fear and worship that made her try to bow to him despite having both arms full, and despite custom that decreed otherwise. Heralds were not supposed to be “special.” Rank was not supposed to matter except inside Circle and Council.

  Rules, apparently, did not apply to Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron.

  Well, that's neither here nor there, he thought, watching the young Journeyman-Bard carefully. :Fandes, what do you think of this youngster?:

  He felt her looking out of his eyes, and felt her approval before she voiced it. :I like him, Van. He'll give you everything he has, without holding back. He has a very powerful Bardic Gift, and he does indeed have a secondary Gift as well that is nearly as powerful. It's something like MindHealing, but very specific. I can't tell you any more than that until I See it in action.:

  For the first time that day, Vanyel allowed his hope to rise a little. :Then you think this might work?:

  :I don't know any more than you do,: she replied, :But the boy has something unusual, and I think you'd be a fool not to give him all he needs to wield it.:

  Van blinked. :Huh. Well, right now, the only other thing I can give him is to stay out of the way. I don't want to frighten him into freezing by having The Great Herald-Mage Vanyel Demonsbane descend on him.:

  :The Great Herald-Mage indeed,: she snorted. :Sounds like someone I know may not fit his hats before too long.:

  Medren opened the door to their room and waved Stefen inside. He looked back over his shoulder at Van, who just nodded at him. The boy was doing just fine; so long as Stefen got to the Throne Room in time for the audiences, Vanyel didn't see any reason to interfere in the way things were going. He turned and headed back down the hallway to the stairs.

  : I won't fit my hats, hmm?: he replied as he descended the stairs. :Isn't that interesting. I was just thinking that it's been too long since the last time you and I went over the advanced endurance course together. Who was it I overheard boasting about the times she used to make over the course?:

  If she'd been human, she'd have spluttered. :Van! That was a long time ago! The trainees are going to be out on the course at this time of the day - I'm going to look like an out-of-shape old bag of bones in front of them!:

  Vanyel chuckled, and pushed open the door to the outside with one hand. :And who was it who told me she could run those trainees into the ground?:

  He hadn't known Yfandes knew that particular curse. He wondered if she'd learned it from Breda.

  Stefen sagged bonelessly into the room's single comfortable chair, and stared at a discolored spot on the plastered wall.

  This was what I wanted, right? That's why I let Medren talk me into trying that trick on Breda. I used to “cure” old Berte's hangovers by singing them away - I was sure I could do the same for what ailed Medren and Breda. And that would get me what I needed, since I knew damn well he has connections up into the Court. I knew he'd get me in to see if I could help the King. This is the only way I could think of to get Court favor, and get it honestly. Now, I know I can help King Randale. What I can do is better for him than his taking a lot of drugs. It'll be a fair exchange. So why am I so nervous about this?

  He couldn't stand sitting there idle; he reached automatically for the gittern he kept, strung and tuned, beside the chair. It was one of his first student instruments - worn and shabby, a comforting old friend. He ran his fingers over the strings, in the finger exercises every Bard practiced every day of his life, rain or shine, well or ill.

  He'd known about this trick of his, this knack of “singing pain away” for a long time - he'd had it forced on him, for all practical purposes, by the old woman who had cared for him for as long as he could remember. It was either sing her pain away, or put up with her uncertain temper and trust he could get out of her reach when she was suffering a “morning after.”

  Old Berte wasn't his mother - but he couldn't remember anyone who might have been his mother. There had only been Berte. Those memories were vivid, and edged with a constant hunger that was physical and emotional. Berte teaching him to beg before he could even walk. Berte making false sores of flour-paste and cow's blood, so that he looked ill. Berte binding up one of his legs so that he had to hobble with the help of a crutch.

  The hours of sitting beside her on a street corner, learning to cry on cue.

  Then the day when one of the other beggars brought out a tin whistle, and Stef had begun to sing along, in a thin, clear soprano - and when he'd finished, there was a crowd about the three of them, a crowd that tossed more coppers into Berte's cracked wooden bowl than he'd ever seen in his short life.

  I looked up, and I saw the expression on her face, and I knew I'd never have to limp around on a crutch again.

  He closed his eyes, and let his fingers walk into the next set of exercises. Berte bought us both a real supper of cooked food from a food stall at the market. Fresh food, not stale, not crumbs and leavings - and we shared a pallet and a blanket that she bought from a ragman that night. That was the best day of my life.

  It remained the best day of his life for a long while, for once she had a steady source of income, Berte returned to the pleasures that had made her a beggar in the first place. Liquor, and the drug called “dreamerie.”

  She drank and drugged away every copper we made. At least I didn't have to spend half of every night trying to run the cramps out of my legs, he thought, forcing the muscles in his shoulders to relax while he continued to play. Things were a little better. I could take care of her hangovers - enough so that we could get out every morning. I was hungry, but I wasn't quite as hungry as when we'd just been begging for a living. The worse she got, the easier it was to hide a coin or two, and once she was gone into her dreams, I could sneak out and buy something to eat. But I kept wondering when she was going to run afoul of whoever it was that sold her the drugs - how long it would be before the craving got too much and she sold me the way she'd sold her own children. An involuntary shudder made both his hands tremble on the strings. I was sure that was what had happened when Lynnell grabbed me that night.

  It had been late; Berte had just sunk into snoring oblivion, and Stef had eased out between the loose boards at the back of their tenement room, a couple of coppers clutched in his fist. He had intended to head straight for Inn Row where he knew he could buy a bowl of soup and all the bread he could eat for those two coppers - but someone had been waiting for him. A woman, tall, and sweet-smelling, dressed all in scarlet.

  She'd grabbed his arm as he rounded the corner, and there had been two uniformed Guardsmen with her. Terror had brande
d her words into his memory.

  “Come with me, boy. You belong to Valdemar now.”

  He hadn't the faintest idea what she'd meant. He hadn't known that “Valdemar” was the name of the kingdom where he lived. He hadn't even known he lived in a Kingdom! All he'd ever known was the town; he'd never even been outside its walls. He'd thought this “Valdemar” was a person, and that Berte had either sold him or traded him away.

  I was in terror - too frightened to object, too petrified to even talk. I kept wondering who this “Valdemar” was, and whether it was a he or a she - He smiled at the next set of memories. Poor Lynn. When she finally figured out what I thought she'd bought me for, she blushed as red as her tunic.

  She'd done her best to try and convince him otherwise, but he really didn't believe her. He really didn't believe any of it until a week or two after he'd been brought to the Collegium, tested, and confirmed in his Gifts.

  It was really Medren that convinced me. Bless him. Bless Breda for putting us together. He was a complete country bumpkin, and I was an ignorant piece of street scum, and together we managed to muddle through. If he was just shaych, he'd have been perfect. He wasn't even jealous when he found out I had all three Gifts, too, and in a greater measure than he did. . . .

  It took two of what were commonly called “the Bardic Gifts” to ensure entry into Bardic Collegium as a Bardic apprentice rather than a simple minstrel. The first of those two were the most common: the ability to compose music, often referred to as the “Creative Gift,” and the unique combination of skills and aptitudes that comprised the “Gift of Musicianship.” The third was more along the lines of the Gift of Healing or one of the Heraldic Gifts - and that was simply called the “Bardic Gift.”

  It seemed to be related to projective Empathy; a person born with it had the ability to manipulate the moods of his audience through music. Some of the Bards of legend had been reputed to be able to control their listeners with their songs.

  Stef had all three Gifts, just as Lynnell had suspected. Medren, who until Stefen had arrived had been the star apprentice, also had all three, but not to the extent Stef did.

  Take the Creative Gift, for instance. Medren cheerfully admitted that he could no more compose anything more complicated than a simple ballad than he could walk on water. Or Musicianship; there were few even among the Master Bards that were Stef's peers in skill on his chosen instruments. In sober truth, there were few who even played as many instruments as he did. Although his favorite by far was the twelve-stringed gittern, he played virtually every string and percussion instrument known to exist, and even a few wind instruments, like the shepherd's pipes.

  But it was Stefen's Bardic Gift that was the most impressive. Even before he had revealed his ability to come between the listener and his pain, the Master Bards had marveled at the strength of his Gift. Untrained, he could easily hold an audience of more than twenty; and when he exerted himself they would be deaf and blind to anything other than himself and his music.

  Anybody but Medren would have been jealous. He just felt sorry for me, because I was alone. Stefen smiled, and modulated the last exercise into a lullaby. There I was, the cygnet among the chicks, and instead of trying to peck me to bits like anyone else would have, he decided I needed a protector. Life would have been a lot harder without him. He kept me from making a lot of enemies. . . .

  He hadn't known until much later that a number of the sharp-tongued boys who initially closed their ranks against the stranger were children of high-ranking nobles, or were nobles in their own right. When he would have gone after them in the straight-forward “fight-or-be-beaten” manner of the streets, Medren had kept him from losing his head.

  He helped me to at least get them to accept me. And I may need them. I certainly couldn't afford to have any of them holding grudges. He sighed and racked his instrument. That's my only hope; court favor. And it's a damned good thing Medren kept me from losing it before I even had a chance at it. Being a Bard is better than being a beggar, but it's still a risky profession to be in, with no real security. A Healer can always rely on the Temple to care for him if something happens to him, and if a Herald ends up hurt or ill-Havens, most of them end up dead-there are always places for them here, at the Palace. But a Bard has only himself to rely on. If he loses his voice, or the use of his hands. . . .

  The harsh reality was that Stefen had come from the streets, and if something happened to him, the streets were likely where he'd end. Unless he built himself some kind of secure future.

  Otherwise - No. He got up, and stared for a moment out his window, at the Palace, the heart of all his hopes. No. I'll do it. I'll make my own luck. I swear I won't go back to that. I won't end up like Berte.

  He gazed at the Palace for a moment more, then picked up the case holding his good gittern, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.

  So now “Valdemar” needs me, after all. That should work. I serve Valdemar, and we both get what we need. He nodded to himself, and closed the door behind him. Fair enough.

  Three

  “Are you going to be all right?” Vanyel asked in an undertone. Then he thought savagely in the next instant, Of course he isn't going to be all right, you fool. The King was as pale as paper, thin to transparency, with pain-lines permanently etched about his mouth and eyes. Under any other circumstances, Vanyel would have ordered him back to his bed; beads of sweat stood out all over his forehead with the effort of walking as far as the Audience Chamber, and Vanyel didn't have to exert his Empathy to know how much pain his joints were causing him. Vanyel would have traded away years of his life to give the King a few moments' respite from that agony. But he allowed none of this to show as he settled the colorless wraith that was King Randale into the heavily-padded shelter of his throne.

  “I'll be fine,” Randale replied, managing a strained smile. “Really, Van, you worry too much.” But he couldn't restrain a gasp of pain as he slipped a little and hit his arm against the side of the throne.

  Vanyel cursed his own clumsiness, and did his best not to clutch at Randale's fragile arms, as he caught Randale before he could fall and lowered the King carefully the rest of the way down into his seat. Another bruise the size of my hand, and he doesn't need ten more where my fingers were.

  “Really, Van,” Randale repeated with patently false cheer, once he'd been settled as comfortably as possible. “You worry too much.” Vanyel stepped back a pace, ready to aid in any way he could, but sensing the King's irritability at his own weakness and helplessness. He also doesn't need to be reminded of how little he can do anymore.

  The slight noise of the chamber's side door opening and shutting caught Randale's attention. He craned his head around a little to see who it was, as young Stefen entered the Audience Chamber, put down a stool, and began setting up near the throne.

  “Is that a new Bard?” he asked with more real interest than he'd shown in anything all day. “I don't remember seeing that youngster in Court, and I'd surely remember that head of hair! He looks like a forest fire at sunset.”

  :Should I tell him, 'Fandes?:

  :No,: came the immediate reply. :It would be cruel to raise his hopes. Stefen is either going to be able to help him, or not. And if not, better that the King simply enjoy the music, as best he can.:

  Vanyel sighed. Yfandes could be coldly pragmatic at the oddest times. “Breda sent him over,” Van temporized. “She says he's very good, and you can probably use him with this particular lot of hardheads.”

  “Gifted, hmm?” Randale looked genuinely interested.

  “Quite remarkably, according to Breda.” Vanyel coughed. “I gather she caught something in the wind about the Lake District lot, and sent him over specially. I understand he's to concentrate on something soothing.”

  Randale actually chuckled. “Breda is a very wise woman. Remind me to thank her.”

  At that moment, the delegation from the Lake District arrived, a knot of brightly-clad figures beside the doo
r, who waited impatiently for the Seneschal to announce them. Vanyel stepped back to his place behind the throne and to Randale's left, while Shavri stepped forward to her position as King's Own at his right.

  Please, he sent up a silent plea, just let him get through this audience.

  Shavri nodded to the young Journeyman Bard, and Stefen began to play as the delegation formed themselves into a line and approached the throne.

  Stefen fought down the urge to stare at the King, and concentrated on his tuning instead. Each brief glance at Randale that he stole appalled him more than the one before it. Only the thin gold band holding his lank hair back, and the deference everyone gave this man, convinced him that the man on - or rather, in - the throne was Valdemar's King. There were two other Heralds on the dais, one on either side of the throne; a dusky woman, and a man Stefen couldn't see because the woman was in his line-of-sight. Either one of them was a more kingly figure than Randale.

  He'd known that Randale was sick, of course - that was no secret, and hadn't been for as long as Stefen had been in Haven. But he hadn't known just how sick Randale was; after all, apprentice and Journeymen Bards hardly were of sufficient rank to join the Court, especially not bastards like Medren and gutter rats like himself. The Bards didn't gossip about the King, at least not where their students could hear them. And Stef had never believed more than a quarter of what the townsfolk and nobly-born students would tell the presumptive Bards. He'd imagined that Randale would look ill; thin and pale, perhaps, since his illness was obviously serious. He'd never thought that the King could actually be dying.

  Randale looked like a ghost; from colorless hair to skeletal features to corpse-pale complexion, if Stef had come upon this man in a darkened hallway, he'd have believed all the tales of spirits haunting the Palace. That the King wore Heraldic Whites didn't help matters; they only emphasized his pallor.