lirik lagu heather alexander - magic's price
every year companions choose, as they have done before,
the chosen come with shining hopes to learn the
herald’s lore.
and every year the heralds sigh, and give the same
advice-
“all those who would hold magic’s power must then pay
magic’s price.”
oh there was danger in the north-that’s all that vanyel
knew.
an enemy of power dark sought heralds out-then slew.
but only those with magic’s gift were slain by silent
rage-
till vanyel of them all was left the only herald-mage.
yes, from the north the danger came, beyond the border
far-
the forest did not stay dark death, nor did the
mountains bar.
and vanyel cried-“we die, my liege, and know not why
nor where!
so send me north my king, that i may find the answers
there!”
then north went vanyel -not alone, though ’twas of
little aid
a bard was like to be to him; and stefen was afraid-
he feared that he would fail the quest, a burden prove
to be-
dared not let vanyel go alone to face dark sorcery.
so out beyond the border there, beyond the forest tall,
into the mountains deep they went that stood an icy
wall-
to find the wall had cracked and found there was a
p-ssage new,
a path clean cut that winding ran a level course and
true.
this path was wrought by mage craft; vanyel knew that
when he saw
the mountains hewn by power alone, a power he felt with
awe-
but to what purpose? something moved beyond them on the
trail;
they watched and hid-and what they found there turned
them cold and pale.
an army moved in single file, by magic cloaked and hid-
an army moved on valdemar that marched as they were
bid-
a darker force than weaponry controlled the men and
place,
for vanyel looked-and vanyel knew an ancient evil’s
face.
then vanyel turned to stefen, and he told the bard to
ride
to warn the folk of valdemar-“they call me ‘magic’s
pride.’
it’s time i earned the name-now go! i’ll hold this army
back.
until the arms of valdemar can counter their attack.”
so stefen rode, and so it is no living tongue can tell
how vanyel fought, nor what he wrought, nor how the
herald fell.
the army came-but not in time to save the herald-mage,
although the p-ss was scorched and cracked by magic
power’s rage.
they fought the dark ones back although they came on
wave by wave.
no trace they found of vanyel, nor of his companion
brave-
they only found the focus-stone, the gift of stefen’s
hand-
now blackened, burned, and shattered by the power that
saved their land.
they only found the foemen who into the woods had fled
and each one by unseen, uncanny powers now lay dead.
as if the forest had somehow bestirred itself that day-
had vanyel with his dying breath commanded trees to
slay?
and still the forest of the north guards valdemar from
harm-
for vanyel’s dying curse is stronger far than mortal
arm.
and every year the chosen come, despite the old advice-
“all those who would be magic’s pride must then pay
magic’s price.”
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