Magic's Price v(lhm-3 Read online

  He realized suddenly that Bard Dellar was still talking, and he'd lost the last couple of sentences. And what had caught his attention was a name.

  “- Herald Vanyel,” Dellar concluded, and Stef cursed himself for his inattention. Now he had no idea at all what it was Vanyel had said or done or was supposed to do, nor what it could possibly have to do with himself. “Well, I think that about covers everything, lad. Think you're up to this?”

  “I hope so, sir,” Stefen said fervently.

  “Very well, then; report to Court about midmorning, just as you did yesterday. Herald Vanyel will instruct you when you get there.”

  So, Vanyel's to be my keeper, hmm? Stefen bowed to the members of the Bardic Council, and smiled to himself as he left the room. Well. Things are beginning to look promising.

  Despite the precautions, there was still jealousy. Stef found himself being ignored, and even snubbed, by several of the full Bards - mostly those who were passing through Haven on the way to somewhere else, but it still happened.

  It wasn't the first time he'd been snubbed, though, and it probably wouldn't be the last. The Bards that stayed any length of time soon noticed that he wasn't getting better treatment than an ordinary Journeyman, and the ice thawed a little.

  But only a little. They were still remote, and didn't encourage him to socialize. Stef was not at all happy about the way they were acting, and it didn't help that he had something of a guilty conscience over his rapid advancement. Making the jump from Journeyman to Master was much more than a matter of talent, no rnatter what the Council said; it was also a matter of experience.

  Experience Stef didn't have. He wasn't that much different from Medren on that score. Nevertheless, here he was, jumped over the heads of his year-mates, and even those older than he was, getting shoved into the midst of the High Court -

  The side of him that calculated everything rubbed its hands in glee, but the rest of him was having second and third thoughts, and serious misgivings. The way some of the other full Bards were treating him just seemed to be a confirmation of those misgivings.

  And the Healers were beginning to get on his nerves. They wanted to monopolize every free moment of his time, studying him, and he had no chance during that first week to make any of the Court contacts he had intended to.

  In fact, for the first time he was using that Gift of his every time he sang, and by the end of the day he was exhausted. If he wasn't singing for Randale's benefit, he was demonstrating for the Healers. If he'd had any time to think, he might well have told them, one and all, to chuck their Master Bardship and quit the place. But he was so tired at day's end that he just fell into bed and slept like a dead thing, and telling the Council to go take a long hike never occurred to him.

  Maddeningly, he seldom saw much of Vanyel either, and every attempt to get the Herald's amatory attention fell absolutely flat.

  Every time he pressed his attentions, the Herald seemed to become - nervous. He could not figure out what the problem was. Vanyel would start to respond, but then would pull back inside himself, and a mask would drop down over his face.

  If he'd had the energy left, he'd have strangled something in frustration.

  That was the way matters stood when Medren returned from his little expedition.

  Stefen stared at himself in the mirror, then made a face at himself. “You,” he said accusingly, pointing a finger at his thin, disheveled other self, “are an idiot.”

  “I'll second that,” said Medren, popping up behind him, startling Stef so much that he yelped and threw himself sideways into the wall.

  While he gasped for breath and tried to get his heart to stop pounding, Medren thumped his back. “Good gods, Stef,” his friend said apologetically, “What in the seventh hell's made you so jumpy?”

  “No - nothing,” Stef managed.

  “Huh,” Medren replied skeptically. “Probably the same 'nothing' that made you call yourself an idiot. So how's it feel to be a Master Bard?” When Stef didn't immediately answer, Medren held him at arm's length and scrutinized him carefully. “If it feels like you look, I think I'll stay a Journeyman. Don't you ever sleep?” A sly smile crept over Medren's face. “Or is somebody keeping you up all night?”

  Stefen groaned and covered his eyes. “Kernos' codpiece, don't remind me. My bed is as you see it. Virtuously empty.”

  “Since when have you and virtue been nodding acquaintances?” Medren gibed.

  “Since just before you left,” Stef replied, deciding on impulse to tell his friend the exact truth.

  “That's odd.” Medren let go of his shoulders and moved back a step. “I would have thought that you and Uncle Van would have hit it off -”

  Stef bit off a curse. “Since when - you've been - what do you -”

  “I set you up,” Medren said casually. “The opportunity was there, and I grabbed it - I knew Van would try anything to help the King, and I know you think he hung the moon. I figured neither one of you would be able to resist the other. Gods know I'd been trying to get you two in the same place at the same time for over a year. So -” Now he paused, and frowned. “So what went wrong?”

  “I don't know,” Stef groaned, and turned away, flinging himself down in a chair. “I can't think anymore. I've tried every ploy that's ever worked before, and I just can't imagine why they aren't succeeding now. The Healers are working me to death, and Herald Vanyel keeps sidestepping me like a skittish horse. I'd scream, if I could find the energy.”

  “Tell the Healers to go chase their shadows,” Medren ordered gruffly. “Horseturds, Stef, you're exercising a Gift; that takes power, physical energy, and you're using yours up faster than you can replace it! No wonder you're tired!”

  “I am?” This was news to Stefen. He'd always just assumed using his Gift was a lot like breathing. You just did it. And he said as much.

  Medren snorted. “Good gods, doesn't anybody in this place think? I guess not, or the Healers wouldn't be stretching you to your limits. Or else nobody's ever figured the Bardic Gift was like any other. I promise you, it is; using your Gift does take energy and you've been burning yours up too fast. If the blasted Healers want to study you any more, tell them that. Then tell them that from now on they can just wedge themselves into a corner behind the throne and study you from there. Idiots. Honestly, Stef, Healers can be so damned focused; give them half a chance and they'll kill you trying to figure out how you're put together.”

  Stefen laughed, his sense of humor rapidly being restored. “That's why I was telling myself I was an idiot. I was letting them run me into the ground, but I couldn't think of a way to get them to stop. They can be damned persuasive, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” Medren took the other chair and sprawled in it gracelessly. “I know. Heralds are the same way; they don't seem to think ordinary folks need something besides work, work, and more work. I've watched Uncle Van drive himself into the ground a score of times. Once or twice, it's been me that had to go pound on him and make him rest. And speaking of Uncle Van, that brings me right back to the question I started with: what went wrong? You still haven't really told me anything. Take it from the beginning.”

  Stefen gave in, and related the whole tale, his frustration increasing with every word. Medren listened carefully, his eyes darkening with thought. “Hmm. I guess -”

  His voice trailed off, and Stef snapped his fingers to get his attention. “You guess what?”

  “I guess he's gotten really shy,” Medren replied with a shrug. “It's the only thing I can think of to explain the way he's acting. That and this obsession he has about not letting anyone get close to him because they'll become a target.”

  Stefen felt a cold finger of fear run suddenly down his back. “He's not wrong,” he told his friend solemnly, trying not to think of some of the things he'd seen as a street beggar. How during “wars” between street gangs or thief cadres, it was the lovers and the offspring who became the targets - and the victims - more often than not. An
d it was pretty evident from the Border news that a war between the nations and a war between gangs had that much in common. “It's a lot more effective to strike at an emotional target than a physical one.”

  Medren shook his head. “Oh, come on, Stef! You're in the heart of Valdemar! Who's going to be able to touch you here? That's even assuming Van is right, which I'm not willing to grant.”

  “I don't know,” Stefen replied, still shivering from that odd touch of fear. “I just don't know.”

  “Then snap out of this mood of yours,” Medren demanded. “Give over, and let's see if we can't think of a way to bring Uncle Van to bay.”

  Stefen had to laugh. “You talk about him as if he was some kind of wild animal.”

  Medren grinned. “Well, this is a hunt, isn't it? You're either going to have to coax him, or ambush him. Take your pick.”

  At that moment, one of the legion of Healers that had been plaguing Stefen appeared like a green bird of ill-omen in the doorway. “Excuse me, Bard Stefen,” the bearded, swarthy man began, “but -”

  “No,” Stef interrupted.

  “The Healer blinked. “What?”

  “I said, 'no.' I won't excuse you.” Stefen stood, and faced the Healer with his hands spread. “Look at me - I look like a shadow. You people have been wearing me to death. I'm tired of it, and I'm not going to do anything more today.”

  The Healer looked incensed. “What do you mean by that?” he snapped, bristling. “What do you mean, we've been 'wearing you to death'? We haven't been -”

  “I meant just what I said,” Stef said coolly. “I've been using a Gift, Healer. That takes energy. And I don't have any left.”

  Now the Healer did look closely at him, focusing first on the dark rings under his eyes, then looking oddly through him, and the man's weathered face reflected alarm. “Great good gods,” he said softly. “We never intended -”

  “Probably not, but you've been wearing me to a thread.” Stefen sat down again, feigning more weariness than he actually felt. The guilt on the Healer's face gave him no end of pleasure. “In fact,” he continued, drooping a little, “if you don't let me alone, I fear I will have nothing for the King....”

  He sighed, and rested his head on the back of the chair as if it had grown too heavy to hold up. Through half-closed eyes he watched the Healer pale and grow agitated.

  “We can't - I mean, King Randale's needs come first, of course,” the man stammered. “I'll speak to - I'll see that you aren't disturbed any more today, Bard Stefen -”

  “I don't know,” Stefen said weakly. “I hope that will be enough, but I'm so tired -”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Medren with his fist shoved into his mouth, strangling on his own laughter.

  “Never mind, Bard,” the Healer said, strangling on his own words. “We'll do something about all this - I -”

  And with that, he turned and fled. Medren doubled up in silent laughter, and Stefen preened, feeling enormously .pleased with himself.

  “I really am tired, you know,” he said with a grin, when Medren began to wheeze. “I honestly am.”

  “Lord and Lady!” the Journeyman gasped. “I know but - good gods, you should go on the stage!” He clasped the back of his hand to his forehead, and swooned theatrically across the back of his chair. “Oh la, good sir, I do believe I shall fai - ”

  The pillow caught Medren squarely in the face.

  All right, Stefen thought, carefully putting his gittern back in its case. I've left you alone except for simple politeness for three days, Herald Vanyel. Let's see if you respond to being ignored. He began tightening the buckles holding the case closed. I've never known anyone yet who could deal with that.

  He suppressed a smile as he caught Vanyel making his way through the crowd, obviously coming in Stefs direction. Looks like you won't be the first to be the exception to the rule.

  “Bard Stefen?” Vanyel's voice was very low, with a note of hesitancy in it.

  Stefen looked up, and smiled. He didn't have to feign the hint of shyness that crept into the smile; Vanyel still affected him that way. “I can't get used to that,” he confessed, surprising himself with the words. “People calling me Bard Stefen, I mean. I keep looking around to see who you're talking to.”

  Vanyel smiled, and Stefen's throat tightened. “I know what you mean,” he said. “If it hadn't been that I spent the winter with the Hawkbrothers and had gotten used to wearing white, I would have spent half every morning for the first couple of months trying to figure out whose Whites had gotten into my wardrobe.”

  Do I - no, I don't think so. Every time I've tried to touch him, he's started to respond, then pulled back. Let's keep things casual, and see if that works.

  “I sometimes wish I'd never gotten Scarlets,” Stef said, instead of trying to touch Vanyel's hand. “I never have any time for myself anymore. And I don't recognize myself anymore when I look in the mirror. I used to know how to have fun. . . .”

  Vanyel relaxed just the tiniest bit, and Stefen felt a surge of satisfaction. Finally, finally, I'm reading him right.

  The crowd was almost gone now, and Stefen wondered fleetingly what business had been transacted this time. He wouldn't know unless someone told him.

  “You did a good day's work, Bard Stefen,” Vanyel said, as if reading his mind. “Randi was able to judge three inter-family disputes that have been getting worse for the past year or more. I'll make you an offer, Stefen - if you promise not to get so intoxicated you can't navigate across the grounds.” Vanyel smiled, teasingly. “We'll have dinner in my quarters, and you can show me those bar-chords you promised to demonstrate the night you played your fingers to bits.”

  I did? I don't remember promising that. For a moment Stefen was startled, because he thought he remembered everything about that evening. Then he suppressed a smile.

  Clever, Herald Vanyel. A nice, innocent excuse. And you might even believe it. Well, I'll take it.

  “I don't make a habit of getting falling-down drunk, Herald,” he replied, with a grin to take the sting out of the words. “And since the food is much better at the Palace, I'll accept that offer.”

  “You mean you're only interested in the food?” Vanyel laughed. “I suppose my conversation hasn't much impressed you.”

  He's a lot more relaxed. I think Medren's right, I'm either going to have to coax him or ambush him, and in either case I'm going to have to keep things very casual or I'll scare him off again. Damn. Stefen stood up and slung his gittern case over one shoulder before replying.

  “Actually, I am much more interested in someone who'll talk to me,” he said. “I'm not exactly the most popular Bard in the Collegium right now.”

  Vanyel grimaced. “Because of being advanced so quickly?”

  Stefen nodded, and picked up his music carrier. “I had only just made Journeyman, and a lot of Bards resent my being jumped up like I was. A lot of the apprentices and Journeymen do, too. I can't say as I blame them too much, but I'm getting tired of being treated like a leper.”

  He fell into step beside Vanyel, and the two of them left through the side door.

  “At least the Council's put it about that the whole promotion was at Herald Shavri's request,” he continued. “That makes it a little more palatable, at least to some of the older ones. And the younger Bards can't claim I earned it in bed - that's one blessing, however small.”

  Vanyel raised one eyebrow at that last statement, but didn't comment. “I got something of the same treatment, though not for too long,” the Herald told him. “Since it was Savil that gave me my Whites, there was an awful lot of suspicion of nepotism, or sympathy because of 'Lendel. ...”

  The Herald's expression grew remote and saddened for a moment, then he shook his head. “Well, fortunately, Heralds being what they are, that didn't last too long. Especially not after Savil got herself hurt, and I cleaned out that nest of hedge-wizards up north. I pretty much proved then and there that I'd earned my Whites.”
/>   “I'm afraid I won't be able to do anything that spectacular,” Stef replied, lightly. “It's not in the nature of the job for a Bard to do anything particularly constructive.”

  Instead of laughing, the Herald gave Stefen a peculiar, sideways look. “I think you underestimate both yourself and the potential power of your office, Stefen,” he said.

  Stefen laughed. “Oh, come now! You don't really expect me to agree with that old cliche that music can change the world, do you?”

  “Things usually become cliched precisely because there's a grain of truth in them,” was the surprising answer. “And - well, never mind. I expect you're right.”