Magic's Price by Mercedes Lackey

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 door, 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.
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    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.
    Stefen was stunned. He couldn’t have imagined that the King was in that bad a state. It didn’t seem possible; Kings weren’t supposed to die in the ways ordinary mortals did. When Kings were ill, the Healers were supposed to take heroic measures, and cure them. Kings weren’t supposed to have pain so much a part of their lives that every movement was hesitant, tremulous.
    Kings were supposed to be able to command miracles.
    Except this one can’t. This one can’t even command his own body to leave him in peace....
    There was something so heroic about this man, this King—sitting there despite the fact that he obviously belonged in bed, doing his job in spite of the fact that he was suffering—Stefen wanted to do something for him, to protect him. For the first time in his life, Stefen found himself wanting to help someone for no reason other than that the person needed the help.
    And for a moment he was confused.
    But I am getting something out of this, he reminded him self. Notice at Court. Maybe even the King’s favor, if I really do well. Come on, Stef, you know what’s at stake here; settle down and do your work. If he needs your help, that’s all the more reason that he’ll be grateful when he gets it.
    There was a stir among the group of people beside the door, and they began to sort themselves out and move toward the throne. Stefen looked back to the three on the dais for instructions, and the dark-haired woman with the sorrowful eyes nodded at him purposefully.
    Taking that as a signal, he began to play, dividing his power as he’d been instructed. The