Magic's Price

mocker-birds screaming at his window. I'll take the old room any time, even if it isn't as cool in the summer. Havens, that bed is going to feel good. . . .

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open just enough to slip inside. Some kind soul had left two candles burning, one above the hearth, one beside the bed. The gentle candlelight was actually quite bright compared to the darkened hallway; shadows danced as the candleflames flickered in the draft he had created by opening the door. As he stepped away from the door, he glanced automatically toward the right side of the hearth, beside the bed- the servants always left his luggage there, and he wanted to make sure his gittern was all right before he went to bed.

And he froze, for there were two sets of packs, and two gitterns. His - and Stefen's. And - he looked beyond the luggage to see if the furnishings had been changed; but they hadn't - only one bed.

Behind him, someone shot the bolt on the door.

He whirled; Stefen turned away from the door and faced him, the warm gold of candlelight softening his features so that he looked very young indeed. His loose shirt was unlaced to the navel, and his feet were bare beneath his leather riding breeches.

“Before you ask,” he said, in a soft, low voice, “this wasn't my idea. This seems to have happened on your father's orders. But Van - I'm glad he did it -”

Vanyel backed up a step, his mind swimming in little circles. “Oh. Ah, Stefen, I'll just get my things and -”

Stef shook his head, and brushed his long hair back behind his ears with one hand. “No. Not until I get a chance to say what I have to. You've been avoiding this for weeks, and I'm not letting the one chance I've had to really talk to you get away from me.”

Vanyel forced himself to relax, forced his mind to stop whirling as best he could, and walked over to one of the chairs next to the hearth. He stood beside it, with his hands resting on the back so that Stefen could not see them trembling. He glanced down at them; they seemed very cold and white, and he wondered if Stefen had noticed. “Ah . . . what is it you need to talk about that you couldn't have said on the road?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“Dammit, Van!” Stefen exploded. “You know very well what I want to talk about! You - and me.”

“Stefen,” Vanyel said, controlling his voice with an effort that hurt, “you are one of the best friends I've ever had. I mean that. And I appreciate that friendship.”

Stef’s eyes were full of pleading, and Vanyel forced himself to turn away from him and stare at a carved wooden horse on the mantelpiece. “Stef, you're very young; I'm nearly twice your age. I've seen all this before. You admire me a great deal, and you think -”

There were no footsteps to warn him; suddenly he found Stef's hands on his shoulders, wrenching him around, forcing him to look into the young Bard's face. Stef s hands felt like hot irons on his shoulders, and there was strength in them that was not apparent from the Bard's slight build. “Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stef said, hoarsely, “I am shaych, just like you. I've known what I am for years now. I'm not an infatuated child. What's more -” Now the Bard flushed and looked away, off to Vanyel's right. “I've had more lovers in one year than you've had in the last ten. And - and I've never felt about any of them the way I feel about you. I - I think I love you, Van. I don't think I could ever love anyone but you.”

He looked back up at Vanyel. The Herald could only gaze back into the darkened emerald of Stefen's eyes, eyes that seemed in the dim light to be mostly pupil. Vanyel was utterly stunned. This - this was considerably beyond infatuation. . . .

“Bards are supposed to be so cursed good with words,” Stefen said unhappily, looking into Vanyel's eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Well, all my eloquence seems to have deserted me. All - all I can tell you is that I think I'd love you if you were a hundred years older than me, or a deformed monster, or - or even a woman.”

The Bard's voice had lost any hint of training; it was tight and rough with tension and unhappiness. For his part, Vanyel couldn't seem to speak at all. His throat was paralyzed and his chest hurt when he tried to breathe. He felt alternately hot and cold, and his heart pounded in his ears. Stefen didn't notice his unresponsiveness, evidently, for he continued on without looking away from Van.

“Since you aren't any of those things,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion, “since you're w-wonderful, and w-wise, and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, and dammit, not old, I - I can't take this much longer.”

A single then proved that the sweet giving and receiving the Bard had just taught him was only the beginning. ...

Overhead, sky a dead and lightless black. To either side, walls of ice - He turned to the one standing at his side. 'Lendel -

But it was Stefen; wrapped in wool and fur, and so frightened his face was as icy-pale as the cliffs to either side of them.