Magic's Price by Mercedes Lackey Page A

greater part went to King Randale. Once that was established, the remainder went toward the approaching delegates, soothing their fears, their suspicions—and they were suspicious, he could read that in their attitudes, just as he’d been taught. Bards weren’t Thoughtsensers, but the kind of instruction they had in reading movement and expression sometimes made it seem that they were. It was plain to Stef that this lot thought Randale had been playing some kind of political game with them, calculatedly insulting them by making them wait for their audience.
    Look, you fools, he thought at them, surprising himself with his anger at their attitude. See what he’s going through? He wasn’t putting you off, the man’s in agony; every moment he spends with you he’s paying for in pain.
    He tried to put some of that behind his music, and it worked. He saw the mistrust in their hard, closed faces fade; watched the expressions turn to shock and bewilderment, then faint shame.
    He allowed himself a moment of triumph before turning his attention back to the King.
    He hadn’t quite known what to expect from Randale in the way of an indication that he was doing some good. He had known he would manage something in the way of relief for the King; he had been completely confident of that. But how much—and whether there would be any outward sign—
    It was the woman’s reaction that surprised him the most. She clutched at the other Herald’s arm, her expression astonished and incredulous. Randale simply looked—well, better. He sat up straighter, there was a bit more alertness in the set of his head and shoulders, and he moved with more freedom than he had before.
    But then Stefen caught a glimpse of his face.
    Breda had been transfigured when his Gift had taken away the pain of her dazzle-headache; Medren had revived when it had eased the misery of the fever—but those reactions compared to the relief Randale showed now—well, there simply was no comparison.
    Only at that moment did Stefen realize how the King must have been living with this pain as a constant companion, day and night, with no hope of surcease.
    He couldn’t bear to bring that relief to an end, not after seeing that. So even when the audience concluded, he played on, allowing himself to drift into a trance-state in which there was nothing but the music and the flowing of the power through him—all of it directed to Randale now. A cynical little voice in the back of his mind wondered at that; wondered why he was so affected by this man and why he was giving so much of himself with no promise of reward.
    He ignored that thought; though he might have heeded it an hour ago, now it seemed petty and ugly, not sensible and realistic.
    Besides, it really wasn’t important anymore. All that was important was the music, and the places it was reaching.
    There was only the flow of melody, no real thought at all. This was the world he really lived for once he’d discovered it, the little universe woven entirely of music. This was where he belonged, and nothing could touch him here; not hunger, not pain, not loneliness.
    He closed his eyes, and let the music take him deeper into that world than he had ever gone before.
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    Something brushed against Stefen’s wandering thoughts; a presence, where no one had ever intruded until now. What? he thought, and his fingers faltered for a moment.
    That slight hesitation broke the spell he had woven about himself, and suddenly he was in pain, real pain, and not some echo from Randale. His fingers ached with weariness, threatening cramps—the tips burned in a way that told him he’d played for much longer than he should have....
    In fact, when he opened his eyes, slowly, then pulled fingers that felt flayed off the strings and looked at his chording hand, the reddened and slightly swollen skin told him of blisters beneath the callus.
    Blisters that are really