v1.0 Scanned and spellchecked by Jaks (still needs proofreading and formatting)





PRISON OF SOULS
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in
this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or
incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 1993 by Mercedes Lackey and Mark Shepherd
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or
portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
The Bard's Tale characters and descriptions are the sole property
of Electronic Arts and are used by permission. The Bard's Tale is a
registered trademark of Electronic Arts.
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
ISBN: 0-671-72193-3
Cover art by Larry Elmore
First printing, November 1993
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Printed in the United States of America



Chapter I
"Let's begin," Naitachal said, casting his black cloak to
one side and raising his practice sword in salute. "And
see if you can get through this drill without tripping
over yourself." He smiled, softening the sarcasm just a
little. Few ever saw a Dark Elf smile and survived to
tell about it; but Naitachal's smile meant only what
any human's would, and it warmed his cold blue eyes
in a way that no other Dark Elf could match.
His apprentice Alaire returned the salute with his
practice sword, and stifled a sardonic reply.
This time, Master Naitachal, you'd better watch out,
Alaire thought as he checked his footing on the coarse
gravel. I've been practicing while you were away!
They faced each other on the small practice field of
the Dark Elf's modest estate. Alaire was a head taller
than his mentor, but Naitachal had decades of experi-
ence. Both were slender, rather than heavily muscled.
At high noon the sun shone directly from above, a dis-
advantage to neither swordsmen.
The contest began, a graceful dance of flesh and
wood, their oak swords clacking away in the bright
sun. Alaire lunged early, catching Naitachal by sur-
prise. But the elf parried and thrust easily, slipping out
of the trap the youth was setting up, trying to pin the
elf against a tree. Alaire charged, using his blade like a
broadsword, and using his greater reach to force his
Master to the edge of the field. Naitachal tucked and
rolled, becoming a blur of black motion that vanished
behind Alaire before he turned, then reappeared at
the periphery of Alaire's vision.
"I thought you said no magic!" Alaire protested,
fielding a counterattack with difficulty.
"None used," Naitachal said smoothly. "Pay atten-
tion to the sword, lad."
Alaire yielded to Naitachal's powerful, but meas-
ured thrusts, hoping to gain control of the contest. The
Dark Elf tripped and wavered momentarily as he lost
his balance, but gained it back quickly.
"Good move," Naitachal said, as their weapons
clacked; the contest fell into a mesmerizing rhythm as
Alaire probed for a weakness in the Dark Elf's
defense. 'Ten more of those and we might come out
even."
The bardling grinned; he Liked how his teacher
turned praise into a demand for more and better
effort. It kept the game interesting.
Alaire sensed that the Dark Elf was intentionally
ignoring his weaker left side. Only yesterday Naitachal
had drilled him endlessly, attacking on his left, until
that side ached. Now... nothing. Even as he consid-
ered this, Naitachal sidestepped off the field, ducked
behind a tree and came out on the weaker left.
Alaire was ready. Instead of backpedaling he lunged
again. The tip of the sword touched the edge of Nai-
tachal's black tunic, but no more; the elf had
sidestepped. Alaire cursed softly, catching a glint of
amusement in Naitachal's dark blue eyes.
Anger surged briefly over him as the swords clashed,
though Naitachal was only doing what any Master
should. The pace of the combat increased. The two
moved back towards the center of the practice field,
kicking up dust in the process. Naitachal was not going
to relinquish his control of the combat that easily. The
Dark Elf's breathing was a little more labored now.
After first faking high to lure Alaire's point away from
his intended target, the elf came in low with his sword.
Alaire deflected it, knocking the elf's swordtip into the
dirt. If he'd parried a little harder, he might have
disarmed his Master, and that would have been a first.
Too easy. Far too easy, Alaire thought, wondering
what distracted his mentor today. Normally he would
have landed me on my backside by now. He knew he
was an average swordsman; Naitachal was a master,
with uncounted years of practice behind him. Was
something wrong? Had the elf learned something on
his last journey to cause him worry?
The bardlings thoughts wandered slightly, enough
to give the Dark Elf an advantage.
"Look!" Naitachal shouted, pointing with his free
hand. "A comet!"
Alaire looked without thinking, following Nai-
tachal's gaze and pointing finger, to something above
and behind him. As his attention wavered, Naitachal
dropped his own blade to the side and shouldered into
him. The next second, he was sitting in the dust in an
undignified heap.
Naitachal regarded him calmly with disappoint-
ment and faint, elven amusement. "I can't believe you
fell for that, bardling."
"Not fair!" Alaire protested weakly, somehow man-
aging to laugh at himself. Boy, was that stupid. Fell, or
rather stepped, right into that one. "I was winning and
you cheated."
"If you were really winning you wouldn't be sitting
there like that," Naitachal said. "We're getting to the
point in your training when almost anything is fair.
The real world is like that. Assassins," he added, his
sword waving in the sunlight as if to punctuate the
sentence, "will go to any lengths to kill their mark."
"What would an assassin want with me?" he replied,
but only half seriously. Someone might want me dead,
if only to get at my father. Being the eighth son of the
King put him in an awkward position. Derek, the first
born and oldest brother, would almost certainly
become king one day. The other brothers were train-
ing for important government or military positions.
Yet, the King had never planned on having so many
sons. As he once half-complained to the Queen, any
other woman would have produced at least a few
daughters along the way. Eventually he ran out of
things to do with them.
Alaire, being the eighth and youngest son, enjoyed
the rare luxury of choosing his life's work. He had been
a very precocious child, and at six, he had decided to
become a Bard. Fortunately, Naitachal was an old
friend of the King as well as a loyal friend to many
generations of the family. No one questioned who his
Master would be.
This had not been a childish whim, but a real voca-
tion. Naitachal had been able to assure the King that
his son's talent was considerable, and that all would be
well.
In many ways, his choice of lifework made him a
less likely mark. The older brothers would certainly
make better targets than he would. However, Alaire
could not ignore the possibility that he could be sin-
gled out by young toughs looking for a fight Naitachal
had often pointed this out when he was sitting in the
dust after a thorough trouncing.
For a year Alaire had trained under the King's Bard
Laureate, Gawaine, and under his guidance convinced
everyone that he had an exceptional degree of musi-
cal, and magical, talent. However, Gawaine was
getting no younger; he had other students besides
Alaire, as well as the enormous burden demanded by
his office of Laureate. Gawaine eventually found it
increasingly difficult to keep up with the workload.
Since Alaire was hardly an ordinary, common student,
Gawaine had known he ran the risk of favoring him
over the other bardlings. It would have been a situ-
ation fraught with trouble for a younger man than
Gawaine; for the Laureate, it was something he simply
did not have the strength to deal with.
By this time Alaire was eight, and he had heard
enough tales about Naitachal to be both excited and
alarmed by having him as his Master. Though he had
"always" assumed Naitachal would be his teacher, he
certainly didn't know what to expect from the mysteri-
ous elf; the Necromancers becoming a Bard was
bizarre enough. He had never seen a Dark Elf before;
he'd had no notion that his father had used the name
"Dark Elf" so literally.
In the bright, airy colors of the court, Naitachal had
stood out like a drop of ink on a white lace tablecloth.
The black cloak he wore habitually flowed about him
as if it were liquid, and the tunic, hose and boots
seemed to absorb whatever light hit them, as if the
Bard's body was a place that canceled daylight. Top-
ping the darkness was his straight, silver hair that hung
down his back, long as all elves wore it, and swept
gracefully from side to side as he turned. His brilliant
blue eyes, twin pools of color in the smooth black skin
of that ageless face, burned right through Alaire when
they first met. They distracted him, even now, during
sword practice. Alaire soon found out Naitachal was
no ordinary Dark Elf, if there could be such a thing.
The somber darkness that seemed to follow him wher-
ever he went was only deceptive camouflage; within
lurked an absurdly cheerful Bard, a master of his
trade, as well as a teacher of other, more practical
skills.
Naitachal had often reminded him of his royal obli-
gations and duties, and the possibility that one day he
might be nearer the throne than he was now. How-
ever, this was the first time Naitachal had mentioned
assassins.
It disturbed him at first, but after a moment of
reflection, he shrugged it off. Sometimes the meaning
of the elf's words didn't become clear for days or even
weeks.
He's probably talking about years from now, when I
join Fathers court. Right now, the prospect of Alaire's
ever having to deal with an assassin seemed vague.
How would an assassin get out here near Fenrich, this
remote village on the northeast coast? And once here,
how could he ever be less than conspicuous?
Alaire loved this place, its peace and quiet, although
he knew it would probably drive his brothers mad with
boredom to stay here for more than a day. It seemed
the ideal location to learn Bardic skills as well as
magic; after all, there were few distractions here to
speak of.
Naitachal had chosen this location to settle, in part
because of the isolation, but also because the village
folk readily accepted him as himself. His money was
good, after all. In times of trouble Naitachal had gen-
erously given his time and magical expertise, winning
considerable popularity among the townsfolk.
Alaire stood and brushed the dust off his breeches,
nursing some pride back into his damaged ego.
"Living out here on the edge of the kingdom
doesn't change your lineage," Naitachal reminded
him. "There's always the chance some enemy of your
father's may want to kidnap you and hold you for ran-
som. This is more likely to happen, though the same
people often kidnap or kill with equal indifference."
"Perhaps," he said, acknowledging Naitachal's
warning, but not really believing he could ever be a
target. At least, not while he was a mere bardling, and
under Naitachal's supervision. First, so few people
knew he even existed, and even fewer knew he was
way out here, Next Door to Nowhere. He didn't like
the sudden serious turn the conversation had taken,
but then what could one expect from a Dark Elf ?
Despite Naitachal's cheer he sometimes lapsed into
the gloom and doom of his own kind. The bardling
had met only a few Dark Elves, who were far more
morbid than his Master had ever been.
No, it was probably just that Naitachal was having
one of those relapses into depression. Probably no one
remembered his existence, outside his own family.
Alaire could almost forget his royal blood out here on
the outskirts of the kingdom.
It's a good thing I'm the eighth son. I know I could
never handle being king. Lucky Derek, he has the
throne and all its responsibilities to look forward to.
By now he must feel like an actor in a play, with all his
lines and actions written out for him.
Alaire struggled to his feet and answered Nai-
tachal's salute with one of his own.
"We aren't finished yet," the Dark Elf said.
As if I was worried we might not be, Alaire thought,
heeding the challenge nevertheless.
Naitachal struck with a vengeance, taking Alaire by
surprise. What's gotten into him? The boy thought as
he frantically defended himself. The elf was attacking
his left side, just as he had the day before.
He did his best, but it became painfully evident that
either Naitachal had been toying with him earlier, or
else he had been distracted by something and was
now leveling his full concentration on the bout. Within
moments, Alaire was struggling just to keep from
being scored on.
Within a few breaths, it was obvious that he was not
going to manage even that.
"Hit," Naitachal declared; the swordpoint wavered
just above his heart. "You're dead."
Alaire froze, then dropped his swordpoint to the
ground.
They both bowed, formally, as the etiquette of
Swordmaster and pupil demanded. Then both
grinned, and Alaire wiped sweat from his forehead
with his sleeve.
"Let's take a break," Naitachal said, "then back to
work."
"I was about ready for a breather," Alaire admitted,
omitting the real reason he wanted to stop: he wanted
a drink to wash away the dust he'd eaten.
They set their wooden swords on a small rack near
the practice field and went to the well beside the front
door. Dipping a ladle into the bucket of ice-cold water,
Alaire drank deeply, clearing his mouth of the dirt.
Naitachal drank too, though he didn't seem winded
or even truly tired. His folk have a constitution we
humans can only dream of, the bardling thought with
envy, at the same time uttering a brief prayer to the
gods that be that he would never have to fight an elf
for real. The practices are hell enough!
Naitachal's age was as much an enigma now as it
had been when Alaire first met him. From some of the
old songs and tales, Alaire learned that he had been
around in King Amber's time. Even then he was old by
human standards.
Now's a good time to ask him again, Alaire thought.
He might even answer. He'd met only with annoying
silence every other time he'd inquired.
"You know, you seem to be holding up well for
someone as, well, old as you," Alaire ventured, cau-
tiously. Naitachal frowned; but then, he usually did
when that question came up. The bardling's words still
came out wrong, as if his mouth assumed a will of its
own whenever he asked something personal about his
Master. Inwardly, Alaire winced. He didn't want to
annoy the elf, particularly when the swords were
within reach. The next bout might be even harder!
"How old are you, Master?"
The elf took his time answering. Alaire wondered if
he had ignored what had become a rather rude ques-
tion, or had chosen not to hear it.
"You're all of nineteen years old, young bardling,"
Naitachal began softly, after drinking from the ladle.
His eyes softened, and Alaire sighed in relief. "A mere
infant. A toddler. At best, a child." He smiled wistfully,
as if considering a secret, amusing thought. "I am old
by your standards."
Alaire waited, but the elf did not answer.
"Well?" Alaire asked.
"Older than you think," he said, "and not as old as
the hills or the trees." That seemed to be the end of
that.
The boy shrugged, deciding to drop that particular
line of questioning, but his curiosity still burned. Nai-
tachal served King Amber. From what Father told me,
he was quite the hero. He mentioned that he was
involved with doing away with Carlotta. He shivered
whenever he thought of the evil princess who had
tried to seize the throne by kidnapping the rightful
heir, Prince Amber. The story had real meaning in his
family. His descent from Amber gave it more impact
than "just a tale." This particular bedtime story had
places where Father would say, "And then Amber
used to say..." or "Gawaine told me that Kevin ..."
Carlotta failed, and then vanished. Years later she
reappeared and hatched a plot involving Count Vol-
mar and a book of Bardic spells. Gawaine's own
teacher, Kevin, had searched for the book in Volmar's
library, found it, and used it to defeat her.
That was all Alaire knew about the incident. The
royal family seldom discussed it, even among relatives,
and kept the details to themselves. Alaire knew there
was some kind of scandal the royal family wanted to
keep hushed up, but he didn't know the details.
Perhaps Naitachal knows.
"I feel more comfortable with the sword now, Mas-
ter Naitachal," Alaire ventured. "It's becoming a part
of me, as you said it would, I'm sorry I came to you
with such holes in my education. My brother Grant
promised me training, but he became so involved with
his own he must have forgotten."
Naitachal ignored him. Alaire knew from experi-
ence, however, that he wasn't missing anything.
Alaire scratched his head a little; his hair was
sweat-damp and his scalp itched. "Still, I never expected
weapons training when Father sent me here. Is this the
kind of fighting you used when you defeated Carlotta?"
At the mention of the evil princess, Naitachal
turned slowly. The look he gave Alaire turned the boy's
spine to ice. His skin crawled uncomfortably, as if it
were trying to slither off his body. Gods, I hope that
wasn't the wrong thing to say, he thought. He could
kill me with one look, if he dared.
"Who said we defeated Carlotta?" Naitachal replied
casually.
The words stunned Alaire. What is he trying to say
this time? "Are you speaking in riddles to confuse
me?" Alaire asked, finally. "Or are you just posing
questions to make me think?"
Naitachal replaced the ladle and dropped the
bucket back into the well, then gave Alaire an
appraising look. "They never told you the entire story,
did they?"
Alaire perked up at the prospect of hearing some
secrets from his family's past. They never went into
much detail when I was around; all I ever got was the
bedtime story, with the moral "be good, or Carlotta
will carry you off."
Sometimes when he walked into his father's study,
and his mother and Grant and Drake were talking, he
would overhear something about Carlotta. As soon as
they saw him, everyone got really quiet.
He hadn't paid as much attention to his own fam-
ily's past as he might have. There was all the scope of
history to learn, a vast mine to delve in for gems that
could become songs. It would have seemed presump-
tuous to use his family as a basis for balladry. Still, the
mysterious story of Carlotta occasionally nagged at
him. Even if he was not likely to become king, he still
wondered what had happened back then, and why
they were keeping it from him.
"No," he said quickly. "No one ever did. The whole
family has been rather evasive about Carlotta."
'Then perhaps I should keep quiet as well," the
Dark Elf replied slyly.
"Not that they were intentionally keeping it a secret
from me," he quickly supplied. "I'm sure they just
never, well, had the time. Or the chance, I mean,
there are some things you just don't discuss with chil-
dren. I've been here what, eight years now?"
"Nine," Naitachal said. "And you were never curi-
ous about it before."
"I'm nineteen now. I'm not a child." Alaire withered
under Naitachal's answering look, which seemed to
say, oh, are you not, really?
His Master shrugged. "The royal family never
swore me to secrecy on everything. I insisted on a free
rein in your upbringing, and got it. What would you
like to know?"
"Details. Like, did you use this kind of swordsman-
ship," he said, pointing towards the rack of swords,
practice and the lethal, metal kind. "Or something a
little more esoteric?"
"I was not the hero," Naitachal said, "and I'm still
not certain any victory was had on that day, by any-
one."
His gaze turned brooding, as it always did when he
was about to relate some story from the past. Naitachal
gift for tale-telling extended beyond songs and ballads,
and Alaire settled back with a feeling of anticipation.
"It began before I became involved," Naitachal
said, with a sideways glance at his apprentice. "A Bard
named Aidan sent his apprentice, Kevin, to the librar-
ies of Count Volmar to copy a manuscript called The
Study of Ancient Song."
Alaire nodded, although he had known all this
before.
"Thirty years before, Aidan had prevented Carlotta
from stealing her brother's throne. At the time, he
thought Carlotta had been disposed of, but he had
recently learned that she was still alive. Although the
situation had changed, Carlotta's ambition had not.
Since you humans have such brief lives, Aidan was
now an old man and didn't have the strength to deal
with Carlotta. His apprentice, Kevin, was only seven-
teen then."
Naitachal shook his head, as if he could not believe
the years had passed so quickly. "Kevin was young,
eager, and dying to have an Adventure. What he
lacked in brains and maturity he more than made up
with enthusiasm. However, he was rather reluctant to
go off to copy some old manuscript. Aidan didn't tell
him how important it was."
"If Aidan was an old man, then wasn't Carlotta an
old woman?" Alaire asked, puzzled.
"Yes, and no." Naitachal frowned. "Carlotta was half
fairy and a shape-changer. Because of her fairy blood
she lived as long as any halfling. As a shape-changer
she could simply shift herself out of the ravages of old
age. By that time, she had also mastered many of the
Darker Arts. She was a fair match for anyone."
Alaire had never heard this before. Now he knew
why. A member of the royal family was a halfbreed,
and she was practicing black magic? Good gods, no
wonder they wanted to keep this secret.
Naitachal took no notice of his shock. "Kevin was all
alone in an unfriendly place, so it wasn't hard for Car-
lotta to learn what Aidan had sent him to do. She won
Kevin's confidence by assuming the form of Volmar's
pretty young niece, Charina. This was easy enough for
a shape-changer, and the result was quite effective. I
believe Kevin had even fallen in love with her. "
Alaire closed his mouth and nodded wisely. "What
happened to the real niece?" he asked. This was not
part of the bedtime story, which usually never got past
the tale of Amber and Aidan.
Naitachal sighed. "What you might expect. The
Count, we later discovered, murdered her to get her
out of the way. She apparently knew something was
afoot." He shook his head. "Poor little thing. They
killed her before she could enjoy her life."
He brooded on that for a moment, and Alaire gen-
tly prodded him back onto the story. "So Kevin came
to copy the manuscript, and Carlotta found out what
he was doing. Why didn't she simply take the manu-
script?"
Naitachal chuckled. "Because the manuscript hid
itself from anyone except Aidan or his deputy. When
the manuscript disappeared, Carlotta and Volmar
staged the disappearance of the fake 'niece' out of des-
peration. They blamed both Dark and White Elves for
the 'kidnapping,' and that was how I became involved.
I was visiting Volmar's court during some rather aim-
less travels. Count Volmar appointed Kevin to lead a
search party. To clear my people's name I volunteered
to help."
So that's where you came in, Alaire thought. This is
getting interesting.
Naitachal squinted up at the sun for a moment.
"None of us knew the book in question had a hidden
spell in it, a spell that could 'unmake' Carlotta. Which
is to say, to return her to her original fairy form."
Alaire nodded somberly. "Only full blood humans
can sit on the throne of Althea." Inwardly, he was both
excited and a little appalled. A fairy? In the royal fam-
ily? I would really like to know how that happened! If
Carlotta is half fairy, my great-great-great-grand-
father must have — ahem. His ears burned as he won-
dered how a human and a diminutive fairy could
have —
Stranger things have happened, I suppose.
Naitachal continued. "Our party would have failed
if not for Kevin's leadership. He made us all work
together in spite of our continuous bickering. Not sur-
prising, since the Count intended us to fail, and chose
us for that reason. We were an Amazon, a fairy, myself
and a White Elven fighter. Anyone would have
thought we would never stay together for more than a
day. We became certain, in the course of some inter-
esting adventures, that Count Volmar had sent us
away so Carlotta could find the manuscript. "
I would truly like to hear that in detail, Alaire
thought, but Naitachal was obviously trying to make
this a short tale.
"In time we returned to the castle, discovered that
'Charina's' captors had 'released' her. The Count
treated us like heroes even though we had done
nothing to rescue her." His expression became grim.
"We were all highly suspicious, and as a precaution I
spent an evening fortifying Kevin with magical
protection. We were certain now that Carlotta was
somewhere around in disguise, possibly as Charina,
although we could not be sure. When Kevin finally
found the manuscript, Carlotta was there beside him.
She knew what it was, and she wanted it. If we hadn't
fled Volmar's castle when we did, she would have
seized it and destroyed us. She pursued us with her
magics. Not all of us survived those magics..."
His voice trailed off, and Alaire saw something he
had never seen before on his Master's face.
Grief.
He dared not interrupt, although he was burning to
hear the end of it all.
Naitachal seemed to shake himself, and completed
the tale. "When we returned to Volmar's castle it was
with a band of some traveling musicians. Kevin
thought they were his Master's human friends, but
actually they were elves and allies of King Amber. Vol-
mar was staging a grand event of some sort, inviting
nobles from all over, and we suspected it had some-
thing to do with Carlotta. We knew we had to work
quickly."
"And you were a hero," Alaire said.
Naitachal shook his head. "Hardly. It was Bard
Kevin, for he was truly a Bard by then, who should get
the credit for what happened In a short time he mas-
tered the spell, and delivered it flawlessly, once
Volmar and Carlotta appeared. There, before every-
body, she returned to her original, fairy form."
"I thought she died," Alaire said. "That's what
Mother said. Gawaine thought so, too."
Naitachal laughed, but it had no humor in it. "That's
what the Queen wants to believe, but alas, I'm afraid
that simply isn't what happened. Carlotta escaped in
the melee that followed. It was all we could do to keep
Volmar's soldiers from executing us on the spot. His
men followed him blindly, and it was only when they
saw Charina's ghost, who openly accused the Count of
her murder, that their loyalties turned. And I had
nothing to do with that! By then I'd had my fill of Nec-
romancy." He took a deep breath and his face cleared
of the shadows of the past. "And that is the end of that
tale. Where Carlotta went after that is anyone's guess.
She didn't die. She only changed."
"Do you think Carlotta is still alive?" Alaire had to
admit he didn't feel too comfortable with the chance
that Carlotta still lived.
Naitachal seemed to consider this seriously for a
moment, but Alaire suspected he already had an opin-
ion formulated "Simply put, yes, though I haven't the
first clue where she would be, or when she might sur-
face. It's not worth worrying about, at least not at the
moment. You have more important tasks at hand, such
as learning real swordsmanship." He laughed again,
this time with real humor. "When I think how Kevin
begged the Amazon and me to teach him the sword!
And how horrified his Master was when he learned
that we had!"
Alaire's thoughts, and gaze, had drifted during the
brief history lesson. Perhaps this was why he didn't
notice when Naitachal slipped over to the swordrack
and retrieved his weapon. He even managed to hide
it, until now.
"I hold a weapon," Naitachal said, smirking, and
saluting him with the practice sword. "Why don't you?"
Alaire opened his mouth to say something, but
nothing came out. Damn him, the boy thought. He
knows when I'm not paying attention! That's when he
pulls these little stunts!
The Dark Elf tossed Alaire the wooden sword,
which he caught skillfully by the hilt, then took
another from the rack.
"On your guard," Naitachal said. Alaire took the
position, and tried to focus on the swords. Carlotta's
story still haunted him.
Naitachal quickly tore into him, with more energy
than he expected; once he started trying to avoid the
elf instead of countering his blows, he knew it was all
over.
Again Alaire lay sprawled in an exhausted heap. He
did not even know what he had tripped over. My own
feet, probably. During the fall, he lost track of his
sword. It was now sticking upright out of the ground,
quivering slightly.
"You have more lives than a cat," Naitachal said,
holding out his hand. "You're dead again."
"Don't remind me," Alaire said, struggling to his
feet. At least I'll improve, even if he beats me like this
every time.
The sun was still high in the sky, reflected brightly
in the white walls and the little fishpond in the yard of
their home. The house was roomy, and by local stand-
ards was certainly a "mansion," but of course it was
nothing like the opulence Alaire had grown up in.
That made it all the better; he felt free here, and the
simple pleasures of country life were a welcome relief
from the court.
Rising from the center of the home was a watch-
tower, giving the house a templelike appearance. An
odd conceit, but one that gave both of them pleasure
in watching storms and stars. From the watchtower,
one could see the distant coastline, and sometimes
even the sail of a ship.
Up on the hillside above the house, in Alaire's line
of sight with the watchtower, he caught movement.
Up there was the only road leading into the estate, and
the moving figure on it might have been a man on a
horse, or a carriage. It was too far away for the
bardling to make out exactly what it was, much less
who. Naitachal apparently noticed too, regarding the
approaching visitor with interest.
"Messenger," Naitachal said simply. "From the
court." Alaire squinted, but still couldn't make out the
outline. Naitachal had demonstrated, repeatedly, that
his eyesight was superior to any humans, so Alaire
took his word for it
"Messenger?" he asked. "Is he armed? Is he from
Father's personal guard?"
"No," Naitachal replied, and Alaire sighed with
relief. A messenger from the Royal Bodyguard would
have been a certain sign that the news was bad. It
would have meant, at the very least, a death in the
family. Or an invasion from a foreign land, or some
other earth-shattering calamity.
Naitachal frowned. "Odd. There must be some
urgency to whatever he's delivering. His horse is
exhausted. He's been riding hard for some time now."
Visitors were a rare treat, but Alaire awaited this
one with mixed emotions. If he merely bore a friendly
message from home, why would the messenger run
his horse into the ground? What could have hap-
pened? he wondered. He tried not to let his
imagination get the better of him.
The messenger and his horse drew closer, and
slowed. The boy was sixteen at most, and was wearing
the dark blue riding uniform and plain blue saddle of
Reynard's livery. Perhaps he had simply ridden hard to
impress his own Master with his diligence. Inwardly,
Alaire groaned. No! Not another fancy, gaudy, foofy,
royal visit from some princess at the castle!
"I come bearing a message for Master Bard
Naitachal from his Majesty King Reynard!" the young
man announced even before coming to a stop. The
horse, a beautiful gray palfrey Alaire recognized as one
of the best in the messengers' stable, did a weary little
dance as the boy pulled up next to them. The
messenger, obviously winded and tired, waved a blue
envelope aloft
Alaire changed his mind again. He would have had
to ride straight through two days to get here looking
like that. The horse doesn't look much better. A visit
from one of Derek's would-be brides would not justify
this degree of urgency, and the Master of the Horse
would take this youngster apart for exhausting his
beast if he had only done it to impress. Naitachal
reached up for message, an envelope sealed in wax
with the family crest.
"Please, take your horse to the stables," Naitachal
said, motioning toward the somewhat dilapidated barn
behind the house. 'There is a water pump with the
trough. When you are done, you may go into the
house to wash."
'Thank you, sir," the young man said, saying noth-
ing to Alaire. He directed the palfrey toward the
stables.
He apparently doesn't know I'm the King's son,
Alaire thought. All he sees is Naitachal's bardling. It
was rather refreshing, and he grinned to himself with a
certain amount of relief. They really had forgotten all
about him at court! He might even be able to sneak
back some time and enjoy himself without having to
put up with all the nonsense.
"Well, what is it?" Alaire said, unable to stand
patiently any longer. Is it about me?
Naitachal flipped open the wax seal and read the
message quickly, at a glance. Then he looked up.
"Well?"
Naitachal's expression was neither grim nor dark-
ened, as it would be in response to bad news. It wasn't
quite neutral, either. Alaire quivered with barely
restrained excitement It's about me. It has to be!
Naitachal raised an eyebrow, then folded the paper
back up and returned it to the envelope. Then, as it lay
flat on his palm, the envelope burst into flame.
Startled, Alaire stepped back. He wasn't expecting
that.
Naitachal calmly brushed the ashes from his hands
and fixed Alaire with a measuring and unreadable
look.
'Tell me!" Alaire said, barely restraining himself.
The Dark Elf never became melodramatic, and burn-
ing the message like that required an exercise of
magics he seldom used
"Your father," Naitachal said, after a lengthy and
infuriating pause, "wants to send us on a little errand."
Without elaborating, Naitachal started back
towards the house.
For a moment Alaire stared at his retreating back.
Then, flustered, he hurried into the house after him.
Naitachal's study was usually a private place where
he wouldn't allow anyone, not even a maid. Alaire had
set foot in the study only six times in the years he lived
there, and then only because Naitachal had invited
him, when some royal crisis was a-brewing.
Now Naitachal stood at the door and beckoned
Alaire to follow. He cautiously followed his Master
into the mysterious den, shivering in its chill. The
place gave him the creeps.
The study had no windows, no source of light
besides a single black candle as big around as Alaire's
forearm. In the darkness the candle flared to life, illu-
minating Naitachal's face. Standing behind him was a
large shelf of ancient, dusty books, all in Elvish, which
had been in Naitachal's family gods only knew how
long. The Bard carefully pulled and examined the vol-
umes, which had no titles on the spines.
"We are going to Suinomen," Naitachal said flatly,
as he searched.
Suinomen, Alaire thought. He can't be serious!
The name conjured uneasy feelings. King Reynard
discouraged all his subjects, and particularly the royal
family, from traveling to Suinomen. His teachers
never spoke about it in school, it never even appeared
on maps, and it never had diplomatic relations with
any country. After a while, one just forgot it existed.
The only contact Althea had with Suinomen was a
light, seasonal trade in animal hides. Alaire didn't even
know who was ruling the country nowadays. Suino-
men. Why, in the seven hells, are we going there?
Their home at Fenrich was near the northern
boundary with Suinomen. This probably explained
why King Reynard picked them, since the border was
a days travel away, the capital two; and since Naitachal
had often run "little errands" that involved diplomatic
maneuvering for the royal family. This still didn't
explain why they were going.
"Found it," Naitachal said, selecting a thin leather
book from the shelf and placing it on the desk. In the
dim candlelight Alaire could make out vague Elvish
script on the cover, but couldn't decipher its meaning.
"You still haven't said why we're going to this place,"
Alaire said, trying to sound nonchalant.
Since the Dark Elf had so few visitors to this room,
it took the boy a moment to find something to sit on.
He finally found an old stool, layered with dust. Since
his backside was already dusty he didn't have any
qualms about using it.
Naitachal was perusing the book. "The land is only
off limits to those who wield magic," he said, as if in an
afterthought.
"So where does that leave us?" Alaire asked. "Did
the King forget what you are, and what you are train-
ing me to be?" Even before all the facts were in, he
found himself resisting the whole idea.
"No one in Suinomen knows we are Bards," Nai-
tachal replied absently. "Let me explain, before you
prejudge the entire mission. You know Suinomen has
been an uncomfortable neighbor for centuries, but for
the most part our two nations left each other alone.
Now they are making vague, but disturbing war
threats."
Alaire was about to say something else, but at the
mention of war, he kept his silence.
Naitachal turned a page. 'This was why I destroyed
the letter. Our mages, through their own spells, have
Seen an impressive military buildup. The Suinomese
have stepped up their recruiting efforts despite a pro-
ductive harvest. Why should they draft youngsters
when the family farms need them the most? The war
threats must be taken seriously."
Alaire shook his head; it made no sense. "We've
lived in peace with them for so long. They want noth-
ing we have. Do they?"
Naitachal looked up for a moment and shrugged.
"The King thinks they're afraid of us. I must agree,
only I believe the fear has gone back many centu-
ries. For about a century now, Suinomen has strictly
regulated magic. Althea, of course, never has. To
practice magic or even the lowest level of healing is
strictly illegal, unless the Crown issues a license.
This is why your father discourages travel to their
land. Too many times our people have never
returned because they practiced a healing to mend
a broken bone, or created a magelight to start wet
firewood, and wound up imprisoned for life. Or so
we assume."
Alaire had heard the rumors of people vanishing
into the North, but he'd never heard one confirmed. It
was one of the curses of living a sheltered life. Idle
street talk seldom reached his ears, even now. Being of
royal blood meant you just didn't hear common gossip,
even if you wanted to.
Naitachal's attention had gone back to his book.
"Magicians, even their healers, take tests in specific
areas. Then, when they have paid their licensing fee,
they may perform only the simplest of spells, and then
only under the supervision of the Suinomen Magery
Association."
"What about Bards?" Alaire asked. "You haven't
mentioned them."
Naitachal's mouth twitched. "They permit simple
musicians, but never Bards. However, they have no
effective barriers to keep them out. Their mages are,
in my humble opinion, amateurs. They probably
wouldn't recognize a Bard unless one whacked them
over the head with his harp."
Alaire stifled a chuckle, as Naitachal continued.
"But somehow they fumble about in their incompe-
tence, and nab a magician or two for making a
lopsided circle on the ground with onion flakes." He
turned another page. "So, as I said, they permit only
harmless, non-magical minstrels, even though no one
over there knows how Bardic Magic really works. This
is how we will present ourselves. We are minstrels,
only. If anyone asks about our instruments, it is our
hobby. The King chose us to be his temporary
envoys."
Alaire shrugged. "Wonder why our ambassador
can't handle this."
Naitachal gave him a withering look, as if he should
already have known the answer. "We don't have one in
Suinomen. We're going to be the ambassadors. We'll
have to be careful there. The reason Suinomen is
making threats is because they feel endangered. Our
unlicensed and unregulated magic is a threat to their
security, or so they claim."
Alaire considered this, while Naitachal went
through the leather-bound book. It makes sense, in a
distorted fashion, he decided. We make perfect
envoys. We're practically at their doorstep already,
and I'm high up on the royal lineage ladder. However,
something else nagged at him.
"Question," Alaire said, raising a hand. "If they
don't permit magic, how can we be the ambassadors? I
mean, you're an elf, and all elves are mages, right?"
Naitachal frowned, and gave Alaire that look he
knew so well, which told him, don't you see yet?
"Magic use is illegal," he said, with a look of bored
patience. "They permit magicians themselves, but
those mages cannot invoke any powers, internal or
external."
Fine. But Naitachal had been a Necromancer, and
in a country that feared mages, this could cause
some... problems. "You're a Dark Elf. Isn't that likely
to incite, well, hostilities?"
This time Naitachal just shrugged. "My people have
never had an ambassador at the Suinomen court. That
is probably why King Reynard wants to send us in that
capacity. Chances are they haven't seen too many
Dark Elves, and if they have, do you really think they
would give me any trouble? If the reputation of Dark
Elves in this kingdom is bad, what do you think it is
over there?"
Alaire had to chuckle. Well, I guess he has a point.
No one's going to harass him, particularly when he can
turn you to powder with a single muttered spell. And
it's not painless, either. Father knows he wouldn't do
that, of course, but they don't.
"Your role in all this is to be rather subdued," Nai-
tachal said, almost apologetically.
Alaire raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, sub-
dued?'
"You are to be my . . . secretary, of sorts. We will
keep your real identity secret."
For a moment Alaire was resentful, then he recon-
sidered; what better way to have fun with an otherwise
serious assignment? If I went as a prince this trip
would bore me silly. Of course they can't know who I
am, and I bet they won't even suspect, since so few
people in our own kingdom know I'm Naitachal's
bardling.
"Ransom, you see," Naitachal said. "It's something
your father would rather not contend with."
Alaire edged closer to the volume, which Naitachal
held in his dark hands. "What is that book, anyway?"
"A very old travel log," Naitachal said. "Here's the
map we'll need. This is the less traveled route, if my
grandfather is right. He wrote this book centuries
ago."
Alaire thought about the plan, and began to feel
relieved, for other reasons. Visiting another country as
the son of a king meant hours of boring, endless pom-
posity, formalities, uncomfortable formal dress, and no
privacy. Going incognito meant none of this.
Well, at least not as much. He suspected that being
an Envoy would include some of the royal trappings.
But not, thank the gods, the full course.
"It's a rather difficult responsibility," Naitachal
admitted. "I think we're up to it. We need to find out
why they are suddenly acting so aggressive, and to stop
them if we can. Do you agree, Alaire?"
"Of course I do," he said, without thinking. He had
another thought, which left him a little awed, a little
excited, and a little afraid. Responsibility. Naitachal
had described it exactly with that single word. This is
important work we can do for the kingdom. And we're
the best ones for the job.
"Remember, the fact that we are Bards is to be kept
absolutely secret," Naitachal said. "The Association
can regulate unlicensed magic, so we must assume
they must have a way of detecting it. We don't know
what the penalties are, after all."
He looked up from the book again, and his eyes
glowed in a rather sinister fashion. "I'd rather not find
out the hard way."
Chapter II
Early the next morning Naitachal rose to the noisy
arrival of men on horses. He glanced through the
shutters and saw the messenger greeting three older
comrades, each wearing the same dark blue uniforms:
They'd brought two additional horses, each loaded
with goods, presumably for the journey to Suinomen.
Though Naitachal and Alaire usually didn't rise till
mid-morning, it looked as if their day had started
without them.
That was enough to wake the dead, he thought,
frowning at the noise. Not very courteous. And they're
not even trying to be quiet.
The Dark Elf threw on a robe and, with a tiny
amount of magic, heated a cup of khaffe. As he walked
past Alaire's bedroom he saw through the open door
that the boy was, as usual, sprawled like a monkey on a
bed of twisted blankets.
Such a raw youth, Naitachal thought, suddenly
aware how sheltered he really was. Watching him, he
felt warm, paternal human feelings, which surprised
him. Even the White Elves had been known to make
unflattering comments about human emotions, not to
mention his own dark and more serious brethren.
Asleep, Alaire looked especially vulnerable. Are you
ready for this journey, my boy? Naitachal asked the
slumbering bardling. Somehow he'd managed to keep
his long blond hair from getting tangled in the covers.
Have I done enough to prepare you for this? Have I
taught you enough to keep you safe and to be able to
take care of yourself if need be?
Then he smiled. And am I going to be able to wake
you without building a fire under your bed?
"Time to rise," Naitachal said, without much hope.
"Our horses and supplies have arrived We must be on
our way."
Nothing.
He spoke louder. "Alaire? Will I have to cast a spell
to raise the dead?"
The boy rolled over, and flung a pillow at Naitachal,
who ducked expertly under it as it whizzed past. The
burst of activity was brief; Alaire buried his head
under a wad of blanket.
"Behavior like that is not very respectful," Naitachal
scolded. "Water from the well should be particularly
cold this morning." He paused, for effect. "If you
catch my meaning. Get up now, or you will find out in
the most direct way just how cold that water is."
Alaire reacted by sitting up slowly on the edge of
the bed. "You'd do it, too," he complained, yawning.
"Did you say more messengers are here?"
Naitachal laughed. "They're out front, where I
expect to see you soon."
Satisfied that his apprentice was truly awake, Nai-
tachal started for the front door. Mug in hand, he
stepped outside to greet the new arrivals, trying to
look more awake than he felt.
"Milord," one of the messengers said. Naitachal
sensed fear, of his race rather than his title, a common
reaction to any Dark Elf. "We have brought horses
and supplies in the name of King Reynard. For your
journey."
"To Suinomen," another said awkwardly, still
mounted on his sweaty horse. The King's men just
stood there, visibly afraid, as if waiting for lightning to
strike them.
Naitachal sighed in resignation. If only they knew
how much I dislike Necromancy, he thought, sadly. At
times like these he wished humans would regard him
with a little less terror.
Then again, this was partially his own fault. In the
past, assuming the appearance and attitudes of a Nec-
romancer had gained him more authority than he
probably deserved. However, Naitachal had never
bothered to correct those who feared him by saying
that he no longer practiced the Black Arts.
The spells and powers of Necromancy never go
away. I was a Black Sorcerer for many, many years.
They are right to fear me.
He could still summon the forces to convert an
enemy to dust. Or, at any moment, call up his Death
Sword, or order the spirits of the dead to serve him.
He could flay the skin from living flesh, and flesh from
bones. Few humans ever guessed that he would rather
put on a jester's outfit and juggle live rats than do any
of that.
The two fine horses pleased him. At least they
would ride in good ambassadorial style. The horses'
tack was more elaborate than he would have preferred
however, particularly since they would be riding in
lands that might harbor bandits or robbers. We might
as well wave a banner, Naitachal thought, with exas-
peration.
Alaire appeared in the doorway. He regarded the
messengers calmly, with ice-blue eyes now wide
awake with curiosity. The new arrivals hardly looked at
him. Apparently they had no idea Alaire was the King's
son, and knew only that Naitachal was a court Bard.
By wearing simple peasant clothing, Naitachal saw that
Alaire had gone out of his way to affect unimportance.
They probably think he's my servant, Naitachal thought,
admiring how well the royal inner circle had kept Alaire's
apprenticeship a secret That's perfect. These messengers
have no idea that this is a prince of the blood royal.
Naitachal invited the messengers inside; they dis-
mounted reluctantly, as if fearing even this show of
hospitality. He showed them the guest quarters and
invited them to stay a night or two in their absence,
knowing it would have taken three days of hard riding
to get here. Without waiting to hear their reply, he
returned to his own quarters, and Alaire followed his
lead. In earnest, they began packing for the trip.
The fancy costumes the messengers had presented
them with would never do for traveling; they left those
items securely packed away for when they arrived in
Rozinki, Suinomens capital. He inspected the impres-
sive weapons the King had sent them, two new
crossbows with an ample supply of arrows, swords
from the royal blacksmith and jeweled daggers. The
cloaks would at least conceal most of these, he decided.
We must leave the jeweled weapons packed. The dag-
gers are too tempting a prize for bandits.
If this was too early in the morning for Alaire, he no
longer showed it. The lad had an extraordinary
amount of frenetic energy for someone who had just
awakened. Naitachal watched him discreetly, trying to
determine from body language if the boy was trying to
conceal uneasiness about the journey, or if he really
thought this was going to be a grand adventure, with-
out pitfalls.
My father could tell him some tales about Suinomen,
thought Naitachal. The book his father had written was
more than a traveler's diary; it was a warning. Father
never really said what was so frightening about the
place. The only thing that could frighten a Necromancer
would be something beyond, or worse, than death.
Alaire brought out their two harps from the house.
The boy's instrument was slightly smaller, and had the
brighter, less mellow tone of newer wood Naitachal's
instrument had belonged to an old hermit who
claimed it was a thousand years old; Naitachal guessed
three hundred, but its tone, and the odd composition
of the varnish, had intrigued him.
"How long will it take us to get there by horse-
back?" Alaire asked, stowing the harps carefully away
in their canvas sacks, which became a balanced pair of
saddlebags. "Or maybe I should be asking, when are
we supposed to be there?"
Included in their supplies was another sealed letter,
which Naitachal opened. Perhaps we do have an
appointed arrival time, he thought, glancing over the
parchment. Included with this was a detailed map of
their route, which took them around the marshes and
bogs that made up the southern portion of the kingdom
and led them along the fjord filled, rocky coast. Swamp
flanked the route on the west, with ocean on the east.
The letter was from King Reynard to King Arche-
nomen, stating his desire to establish diplomatic
relations between their countries. Included in the
packet was another letter, for Naitachal's eyes only,
giving details of the Kings thoughts on the whole mat-
ter, and a separate certificate that confirmed
Naitachal's position as a royal envoy. There was noth-
ing that would indicate Alaire was a prince; once they
were in Suinomen, he would be an underling, or at
least give the appearance of one.
"No particular day to be there," Naitachal said. "I
would guess two, maybe three days at the most. The
provisions should suffice us. If not, we can hunt,
though I doubt much game lives on that narrow chan-
nel." Oh well, he needs to get rid of some of that baby
fat anyway.
Since the girl who cleaned and cooked for them
had not arrived from the village, Naitachal cooked a
hearty breakfast for everyone, instructing Alaire to
play as if he was Naitachal's assistant.
"I know you outrank them, but it will be good prac-
tice," he added.
Alaire's face became a distorted mask of humility,
and he bowed humbly before the Dark Elf. "I am at
your service, my gracious Master," he said, smirking.
"You should be able to do a more convincing job of
posing as my secretary than that," Naitachal whis-
pered. "They might figure out who you really are, and
take you hostage. They are preparing for war, you
know."
The smirk disappeared. "Aie yes, you're right. As
usual. This is a serious matter, in need of your expert
diplomacy. I will play the role to the best of my ability."
Alaire grabbed the wooden tray of biscuits, gravy and
boiled eggs.
"We will be leaving promptly after breakfast," the
Dark Elf said, but Alaire had already vanished into the
dining room.
Once they'd packed their belongings, Naitachal
leaned over and gave parting directions to the messen-
gers on how to close up the house. Their curiosity
didn't concern him; any room they shouldn't be in,
they couldn't get in. Certain spells wouldn't allow any-
thing less than a mage, and a more powerful one than
he, into the study or watchtower, which were both
secret and dangerous spaces. Similar spells would not
let common bandits near the house. For the most part
Fenrich had a peaceful, law-abiding population, more
likely to protect Naitachal's property than try to take
advantage of his absence.
They mounted up. The Dark Elf rose in his stirrups
for a moment; from here he could see the village,
deep in the hollow of a long valley. They took to the
road, riding along a rocky ridge just above the village,
the sort of terrain that would become all-too-familiar
before the journey was over.
Alaire followed his gaze. "Should we stop and tell
Mayor Woen we'll be gone?"
"I have already instructed one of the messengers
to do so," Naitachal said. "The house defenses will
take care of themselves, once the messengers are
gone."
"Aye, they will," Alaire said gleefully. "Remember, I
helped you lay a few of those magical traps myself,
should you have to 'step out' for a little while."
Since Naitachal was the only mage of any ability
who lived in the area, he had become the village pro-
tector. He had pointed out to the mayor that he was
likely to come and go, and that if trouble ever came to
the village he might not be around to get rid of it. With
Alaire's help Naitachal had laid all kinds of tricks and
traps to protect the village in their absence.
"Even 'ordinary' humans have outwitted magic
users," Alaire pointed out. "In my great grandfather's
time the court relied as much on the ordinary, non-
magical folk as they did the magic users to fight
Carlotta."
"Quite true. A respectful fear of the unknown, even
unknown humans, is a healthy response," noted Nai-
tachal as he glanced over at Alaire, who eyed his
saddle, as if he felt it might be loose. "But until we get
to Suinomen, I doubt there is much that will bother
us, human or not. What we have to fear once we get to
there is the breaking of our magical anonymity.
Remember, we are mere ambassadors, with musical
abilities. We are not Bards, or magicians. We don't
even do card tricks."
Alaire made a noise Naitachal couldn't immediately
interpret. "Strict, hmm?"
"Strict is not the word I would have chosen," Nai-
tachal replied.
Soon the village receded out of sight; the ocean
came into full view on their right, and mountains grew
up on their left. Here the weather had cooled; where
they were going, it would already be winter. Fortu-
nately, the King had included two fine dieren coats
with their wardrobe, in the traditional Suinomen cut.
They traveled the coastal road into Suinomen.
Weeds now grew in the rutted tracks left by the carts
and wagons that brought in dieren wool, the primary
source of income for the Northerners. The dieren
themselves were splay-footed, antlered beasts, the
only visible asset of that kingdom, although Naitachal
had never seen one alive. Every spring the herders
carefully brushed out the wool, a warm, silky material
which was in high demand throughout Althea.
Dieren meat was delicious, and the herders even
made a very succulent cheese from the milk. Villagers
from Fenrich often tried to bribe the Suinomen trad-
ers to bring down and sell a few of the beasts,
preferably a mixture of male and female, but they just
laughed, only to return with more processed dieren
goods the next year. But no dieren. They're not fools,
the Dark Elf thought. Assuming the beasts could even
live in our climate, why should they give us the means
to breed them ourselves?
As if reading Naitachal's mind, Alaire said, "I won-
der what dieren look like."
"Well," Naitachal said, feeling mischievous. "I'll bet
they have fur. And four feet. And antlers."
Alaire turned slowly, giving him a wry grin. "Your
powers of deduction never cease to amaze even
me," Alaire said in jest. "Seriously, do you think we'll
see them before we get to Archenomen's castle?"
Naitachal considered this a moment. "I doubt it. All
we'll see is coastline and marsh. They herd the beasts
further north, on the prairies. Maybe. I've never been
there myself, so I can't say."
"As long as you've lived, you've never visited Sumo-
men?" Alaire seemed genuinely surprised
What, did he think I have been everywhere and
seen everything?
"No. Not there. After my father returned from that
land, he warned us never to go there, that something
unspeakable awaited us all if we did." Naitachal shook
his head. "Remember that it made a practiced Necro-
mancer feel threatened. We were not likely to ignore
his advice."
"And he never said what it was?"
Naitachal wished that he had. "Not once. He
seemed particularly rattled by whatever he saw. His
attitude concerning his children even once we were
grown was, 'obey, and ask no questions,' so we didn't.
And we do not have the time to seek him out, wher-
ever he has cloistered himself, and ask him. If he
would even talk to me, renegade that I am."
Alaire pulled up closer to him as the trail narrowed
to an overgrown tunnel of trees. "Did he ever tell you
anything else about Suinomen? I heard only giants live
in the north, in enormous ice castles, and that Suino-
men allowed some mages to cast spells that wreaked
havoc with the weather."
Naitachal replied, "I've heard the stories too, but
they are mostly rumor according to Father's journal. I
doubt that anyone can control the weather, but as I
told you, these folk do permit magic under tightly con-
trolled circumstances. Their passion for regulation has
frightened many visitors away. Not that I blame them.
Who would want to live in a place where one cannot
even cast a simple Healing spell without licenses and
fees?"
"Then perhaps we could cast one last Bardic spell
before we arrive?" Alaire asked coaxingly.
Naitachal considered this; the practice would be
helpful to the young bardling. But he could think of no
good reason to cast a spell just then, except something
protective, and a protective spell would last for some
time. If we conjured something to protect us they may
detect any lingering magic.
"For what purpose?" he replied reasonably, as his
horse shook its head until the bridle ornaments jan-
gled. "We can't go tramping into Suinomen with
magical residue dripping off us. I assume they have
some means of detecting magic, if they are policing
their kingdom of it. Which means they might even
detect it from within our borders. Not a good idea."
Alaire nodded, apparently agreeing with his Master.
"You were up most of the night reading that journal of
your father's. What else did he have to say?"
"We can expect a rather subdued atmosphere
wherever we go. According to Father, these people
don't have much fun." Not that Necromancers are
known for having a good time. "Even he remarked on
that extensively; he thought it might be because of the
long nights, or the difficult conditions that most of the
people there must face. It is a strange land, dotted
with thousands of lakes filled with islands. The people
tend to be small, slender, and very blond. On a dark
night some might even be mistaken for a White Elf."
Alaire shook his head. "I can't think of anything we
have that they would be desperate enough to go to war
over. It makes no sense. Unless something has hap-
pened to change things within the government; I
mean something drastic, like the overthrow of the
Royal House."
Naitachal gave him points for that notion. He
guided his horse easily across a particularly bad stretch
of road before making a reply. "This is one of the
things we must find out. Who rules, and who follows.
The land has no mines, no source of gold, silver or
gems. For whatever they need they must trade heavily
in dieren goods. They do have amber in large quanti-
ties, but that is all." A thought occurred to him. "I
wonder if one of the reasons why they're making these
threats is to gain access to our mines in the North? I
would have thought that those mines were much too
far south of their border to qualify as a target, but per-
haps King Archenomen thinks he can conquer enough
territory to take them."
"Makes sense," Alaire said ominously. He appar-
ently hadn't considered the mines as the possible
target either.
Naitachal had not even thought of the mines until
this moment because they were technically "owned"
by the dwarves who worked them. If the Suinomites
felt they "belonged" to Althea, and desired them, that
changed the complexion of things. There is something
in Althea that's worth fighting over.
Naitachal sensed uneasiness in the boy, which car-
ried over to his horse, which fretted at the bit. Alaire
said, "I was excited about this trip, and all the good it
will do for Althea. Now, though, I don't have a very
good feeling about what might happen to us in Suino-
men, even though this trip could accomplish much for
Althea. Yesterday, before that messenger arrived, I
wouldn't have thought twice about the place. Now it's
all I can think about, but it's as if there's a dark blot
where there should be light, or discord where there
should be harmony, and it makes me nervous. Maybe
mystery and the lack of information has colored my
imagination."
Naitachal eased his horse up beside his bardling,
and looked carefully into Alaire's eyes. Something
lurked there besides the youngster's active imagina-
tion. "Maybe your magic is telling you things," he said
slowly.
Alaire's eyes narrowed. "A warning?"
"Perhaps." Naitachal turned away himself, feeling a
deeper sense of warning and foreboding than he had
in many, many years.
What are we going to find in Suinomen?
They stopped for the night at a stay-station, a crude
one-room stone cottage with wooden frames for their
bedrolls, a fireplace, and a scanty supply of wood.
Alaire and Naitachal spent the better part of an hour
gathering enough wood in the forest to keep warm
through the night.
Alaire suggested tentatively that he use magic to
warm the place up; the temperature had dropped
below freezing, and promised to plunge further.
"This is only a taste of what we're in for, up there,"
the Dark Elf commented as they met at the doorway,
hefting a bundle of deadwood over his shoulders. "We
won't be able to use any of our usual powers to warm a
cottage, or whatever lodging we find between here
and there, if indeed we find any at all. We'd better get
used to it. Anyway, we'll be at the palace soon enough,
where we won't have to worry about gathering wood
for fires."
"Of course not; we'll be putting out political ones,"
Alaire said sardonically.
Naitachal nodded. And I won't be able to use magic
to deal with that, either. I suspect I am going to be very
busy. And so will Alaire.
Chapter III
Alaire thought he would fall asleep immediately after
the long ride. Instead, his aching muscles and the
hard, unfamiliar "bed" kept him turning and tossing
all night. Long after the fire had burned down to
coals, he dozed off, his dreams colored by the sounds
of wild things prowling the night outside the shelter.
Curled up in a tight little ball in his snug bedroll,
Alaire awoke to the sound of sloshing water. Naitachal
was holding a leather bucket of water above him, tip-
ping it ever so slightly over his stomach. Even from
this position he saw that the water was just about to
drench him.
"Ae-ye, you wouldn't!" Alaire shouted, scrambling
into a defensive position — as well as he could, bur-
dened with his bedroll. The bucket got his attention,
as did the mischievous glint in Naitachal's blue eyes, a
bizarre sight when combined with the black face of a
Dark Elf.
"Ah, but I would. I've been calling your name for
the last quarter-hour," he said. The bucket hadn't
wavered. "Are you going to get up, or am I..."
Alaire thrashed around, trying to get away from the
bucket but in so doing he managed to roll into Nai-
tachal's legs. The sudden jostle dislodged Naitachal's
grip. With a loud slosh the water and bucket landed in
Alaire's lap. And yes, the water was cold. Icy, in fact
"YYYAAaaaaaarghhhl" Alaire shrieked, throwing
the soaked bedroll off his legs and scrambling to his
feet. As he made for the blazing fireplace he saw that
he'd soaked Naitachal as well.
"That was not what I intended," Naitachal said. "I
assure you. But it did get you on your feet. We have
another long day ahead of us."
Alaire glared at him, trying to think of a clever
retort. Unable to think of one, he settled for the obvi-
ous. "That water was cold!" he said indignantly. .
"Then why did you knock it out of my hands?" Nai-
tachal asked. "You needed a bath, anyway. You
humans get a little ripe after a few days of not bath-
ing."
"Don't remind me," Alaire said, somewhat sadly.
Normally he would soak in a hot bath before bed —
without having to haul his own firewood. Muscles he
did not use in swordwork ached. At this point, Alaire
had had about enough of this kind of "adventure." He
could not imagine having to travel the countryside
singing for his meals and bed. He no longer envied the
Bards who did.
"Should we get there today?" he asked hopefully.
Naitachal glanced through the open cottage door at
the sun, still low on the horizon. "If we get on the road
before the sun sets, then perhaps we will. I've already
cooked breakfast."
Alaire couldn't see breakfast, but he could smell it.
A closer look at the fireplace showed him the delicious
aroma's source, two little rabbits roasting on a spit.
His mood improved immediately, as Naitachal took
both rabbits from the spit and lay one on a piece of
clean bark for him. Yum! A hot breakfast alone is
worth getting drenched with ice water.
As Alaire tore into the rabbit, he realized the water
he'd awakened to was fresh, and not tainted with the
leathery tang of the old bucket.
"Where did you get the water anyway?" he asked
between bites.
"Ah," Naitachal said, settling down next to him and
starting on his own breakfast. "There is a shallow
spring down the side of this ridge. Not more than a
trickle, but it was enough to water the horses and
bring a bucket full up here for you. It was to be your
drinking water, not your bath."
Alaire grinned, for by now the shock of the icy
water had worn off. It's hard to be mad at him for too
long, especially when he lets me sleep and catches and
fixes breakfast. Then his mood brightened even more.
We could arrive in Rozinki today. There will be an inn
with real baths!
They packed and loaded the horses, but before
leaving Alaire sought out the spring. It was a mere
trickle, as Naitachal had said, but it was very fresh.
And very cold, he rediscovered as he splashed some
on his face.
When he bent to drink, he felt something distinct,
and familiar. A wave of weak magic passed over him.
He froze momentarily, then resumed drinking, sati-
ating himself while pretending to ignore the magical
probe that had fixed on him. It felt warm and tingly,
like a large beam of sunlight; but unlike sunlight, this
had a feeling of control behind it. Who was controlling
it, he couldn't guess, but he had the distinct impres-
sion it was coming from the direction they were
traveling towards.
Good gods, he thought, still acting oblivious to the
probe.
Who in the world could be doing that?
He returned to camp, but as he left the well behind
him, the magical eye followed. You're a mere mortal,
remember? You don't know it's there. You can't know
it's there. Only a Bard or a mage could feel it.
Before he reached the horses, he felt the probe
shift, weaken, then vanish. Relieved, he quickened his
pace, eager to tell his Master about this unexpected
intrusion.
He found Naitachal adjusting the bridle on his
horse, but as soon as Alaire drew closer he felt the
probe again. This time the magic only brushed past
him, for it focused on the Bard instead.
The Dark Elf turned, and met Alaire's eyes with his
own. Alaire nodded, ever so slightly.
"Are you ready to travel?" Naitachal asked Tension
colored his words, which seemed to say, Ah, so you feel
the probe too? Alaire nodded again.
"Yes, I believe so," he said, trying to approximate
the same tone. "I wonder if — ah — we're going to
see any natives today?"
Naitachal mounted his horse, and looked down at
Alaire.
"Perhaps. I suspect they'll see us first."
They rode for close to an hour, making idle con-
versation about the weather. That wasn't hard to
manage, for it deteriorated into a cloudy, cold morn-
ing, threatening rain or, more likely, light snow. The
mysterious probe followed them and Alaire tried to
conceal his unease; it was as if a giant something was
looking over their shoulder, listening to their every
word.
Then, suddenly, the probe vanished.
Moments later, Naitachal chuckled. "My. That was
interesting."
"It was a probe, wasn't it?" Alaire said, sensing it
was safe to talk. "A Watch-Spell? Who was it? One of
our mages?"
Naitachal snorted. "Hardly. It came from Sumo-
men. I suspect it was one of their court mages.
Amateurish, if you ask me. We've been approaching
their border for some time, but they're only now
aware of it. And they tipped their hand."
Alaire had to agree; it was quite possible to use a
Watch-Spell without alerting the subject. The wizards
of Suinomen should have been more careful than that.
"If we were an invading force, they'd be in real trouble
by now."
"Indeed." Naitachal frowned. "It leads me to won-
der if we were right, and they want our mines to the
west. They certainly weren't paying any attention to
this route, until now."
During the latter half of the afternoon, the weather
continued to turn. What had been nothing more than
a chill in the air became a frosty winter blast, a hard,
cold wind that hit them head on, from the north.
Naitachal, as usual, seemed to be taking it all in
stride. Out came the winter coats, complete with
hoods that buttoned closely under the chin. Alaire's
hood seemed a bit oversized and hung low over his
face. This obstructed his view somewhat, but the
dieren clothing kept out the cold perfectly. The outfit
even included thick dieren gloves, a necessity when
riding.
There was another advantage to the hoods; he saw
right away that the one on the Bard's coat concealed
Naitachal's ears and a good part of his face; he didn't
look like an elf, unless seen from close up.
The sudden change in the weather made Alaire
wonder if a mage had brought the cold down on them,
to discourage further travel northwards. He said as
much to his Master.
Naitachal shrugged the suggestion off. "I doubt it.
This is simply what the weather is like around here.
Frankly, I doubt their mages could cook something up
this dramatic."
That afternoon they crossed the Suinomen border.
They found no guardhouse or barriers, just a strange
stone pillar on the Althean side. Naitachal translated a
series of elven runes which covered the marker. The odd
message warned all elves, Dark and White, to stay away
from Suinomen. It said nothing specific, according to
Naitachal, just a general stay out to all elves who saw it.
Alaire thought it might be a forgery by the Suinomen
government, to persuade magic users to turn back.
The Bard shook his head. "There is a residue of
elven magic on the writing," Naitachal said. "They
could never have forged that."
Alaire felt strangely uneasy the moment they
crossed the border into Suinomen. Not only was he
leaving his home behind, he felt as if he had passed a
point of no-return, and that the odds were he would
never go back....
Oh don't be stupid, he scolded himself. You're see-
ing bogeys under the bed again. People go across
borders all the time and nothing more happens to
them except a pleasant or unpleasant journey. You're
not a Druid or a Cleric. You can't foretell the future.
You're just a bardling, and this is just a border like any
other.
The terrain leveled out as they drew closer to the
sea. The fens and marshes were clearly overrunning
the western side of their trail. Alaire winced as he
imagined the difficulty in taking a horse through those
miserable bogs, particularly in this cold. The air here
was thicker and damper, and redolent with the scent
of the marshlands, a mingling of sea scent and decay-
ing vegetation.
Naitachal had trotted up ahead a few horselengths
to the top of a rise, then reined his horse to stop.
"Come up beside me and stop," the Bard said, before
Alaire could see what had attracted his attention. "I
see someone approaching."
Alaire's head came up, as if he could scent some
danger in the air like a hound. Naitachal didn't seem
too concerned yet. Nevertheless, his hand was on
his hilt, and Alaire thought it prudent to follow his
example.
Presently two riders rode over the next rise. They
were several hundred paces away, and it was difficult
to make out much more than that the newcomers
were also muffled in heavy dieren-wool coats. The two
parties regarded one another in an uneasy silence for
several moments, then the others nudged their horses
forward again.
"Remember who and what you are," Naitachal said.
"I think they're border guards, but I don't recognize
the livery, so I'm not certain. Time to assume our new
roles."
Alaire said nothing as the men came closer, but was
fascinated by what they were riding. The beasts cer-
tainly weren't horses. These creatures were enormous,
at least four hands taller than their own high-bred
geldings. Each animal had a set of enormous branch-
ing horns, like a pair of young trees growing from their
heads, and larger and more dangerous-looking than
any deer could ever boast of. Their hoofs were cloven,
but larger than a horse's, and the length and muscula-
ture of their legs suggested great speed and agility.
When he noticed the peculiar color of their coats, a
rich reddish brown, and realized it exactly matched
that of his coat, he realized what they were.
"Dieren!" he said, louder than he had intended.
Naitachal whirled around, glaring at him. "What did
you think they were, rabbits? Will you please keep still
while I try to establish our credentials?"
The men wore readily identifiable uniforms. Coats,
trousers, boots, even saddles and saddle blankets were
identical. Over the left breast of each coat was a
triangular badge with the red and green colors of the
Suinomen flag. One of the guards sported brass
decorations; he was older than the other, and that
seemed to Alaire to guarantee that he was the superior
officer of the pair. They wore fur hats that looked like
gray loaves of bread, and seemed more ornamental
than practical.
The hats looked absolutely ridiculous at first, but as
the guards drew their swords as they approached, he
decided that maybe the hats didn't look quite as silly as
he had thought.
He had to control the automatic reflex to pull his
blade. Naitachal's sword remained in its sheath.
The Dark Elf cleared his throat, and the two men
started. "King Reynard, ruler of Althea to the south,
has sent us to represent him. We come in peace. We
would like to speak to your ruler, King Archenomen,"
Naitachal announced, in his best minstrel's voice. The
words carried clearly through the chill air.
The two guards exchanged muffled words before
the older guard replied, "You do not look like ambas-
sadors. Look more like bandits to me. Show us your
credentials." He spoke with a thick accent, making his
words difficult to understand. For one thing, the
emphasis was on all the wrong parts of the words; for
another, they rolled the words around in their mouths
as if they were gargling. At least, Alaire thought,
they're using the same language. Even if it does come
out a little different.
Naitachal sighed, sounding more annoyed than
anything. The younger guard, still mounted on his
dieren, began to advance toward them. Predictably,
both Naitachal's and Alaire's horses reared up in fright.
"Hey!" Alaire shouted, fighting to get his horse back
under control. The horse half-reared again, then shied
sideways, nearly unseating him. When he calmed his
steed down, he looked up to see how Naitachal's beast
was behaving. Judging by the froth of dark sweat on its
neck, it was no happier about the dieren than Alaire's
gelding.
The young man laughed nastily. Alaire decided at
once that the man must be a bully by nature; he had
that look of unpleasant enjoyment on his face that
reminded Alaire of an oversized page who had liked to
catch the younger boys alone and throw them into the
horse-trough. "You must be from down south after all,
to be riding such loathsome, cowardly beasts. Never
seen one of our riding animals, have you? Good. That's
how we like it!"
Naitachal dismounted and rummaged through his
pack. Finally, after a long wait, he withdrew the enve-
lope Alaire's father had sent, with the scroll declaring
Naitachal the official envoy of Althea.
"I have a letter from my king to yours if this isn't
sufficient," Naitachal said, walking towards the guard.
To look up at the mounted guard he had to remove
the hood; when he did so the younger guard, then the
captain, froze in shock.
"Dark Elf!" the senior guard shouted. "What are
you doing in our kingdom?"
Before Naitachal could respond, the younger guard
pulled his beast back, away from him. They were both
terrified
Of course. These people are terrified of magic. Most
Elves are active practitioners, and Dark Elves are usu-
ally Necromancers!
Naitachal simply raised a calm eyebrow, as if he
found their fear as nonsensical as a child's fear of
beasts in the closet.
"Nothing that would violate your honorable laws, I
assure you. King Reynard chose me to be his ambassa-
dor because he trusts me. I practice no elven magics,
either Dark or White. Do not fear me. I am only King
Reynards servant."
The guards regarded them suspiciously. They
seemed far more concerned with Naitachal's heritage
than his credentials.
The Dark Elf frowned. "Well?" He waved the
packet of papers at the guard. "Are you going to look
at this or not? We'd really rather not stand here in the
middle of the road for much longer."
The two guards exchanged looks, then the elder
said, hastily, "Please proceed to Rozinki. With our
blessings. If you leave now you should reach the city
before nightfall."
With that the two guards wheeled their dieren
about, and rode off, back down the route they just
traveled. Naitachal stood in the middle of the road,
watching them ride away, and when they were a con-
siderable distance away, he smiled wickedly.
'They rattle easily around here, don't they?" he
said. Alaire sensed a chuckle under his words.
"I suppose so," Alaire said, trying to restrain his own
laughter. "We should get going. Rozinki sounds pretty
good right about now!"
The road they followed showed more signs of
travel; the ruts made by wheeled vehicles, churned up
mud and animal droppings, all dusted with the
remains of a recent light snow. Naitachal strained his
neck and turned his ear forward, as if he was trying to
hear something ahead.
The terrain continued to be hilly, with the hills
gradually rising higher and higher before them. They
could see nothing from the top of one but the crest of
the next and the valley between.
An icy, wintry wind blasted them at each hilltop.
Alaire stopped thinking of the two guards, stopped
drinking of Rozinki, stopped thinking of anything
except huddling on his saddle and avoiding the wind.
When they crested the final hill, Rozinki's sudden
appearance below them came as a surprise.
At first it appeared to be a city of boats, and only
boats, spread beneath them on a huge bay. A compli-
cated network of wood and stone docks surrounded it
Many of the boats looked like homes as well as a
source of income, and came in many different sizes
and shapes. One of these boats, a long, flat craft,
docked on the shore nearest them.
"Good gods," Naitachal said "I had no idea Rozinki
was this large." He stared down at the bay in silence
for a moment. "Interesting. All those ships would
imply they travel, but it certainly isn't to our kingdom.
So whom are they visiting?"
Alaire shrugged. The Bard's eyes moved upwards a
bit, then stopped. "And there's the castle."
Alaire followed his gaze to what he had thought was
simply a more regular outcropping of stone on the cliff
above the bay. Then his first impression was that it was
a military fort, not a royal palace. Then again, it was
probably both, palace and fortification; the harsh land
probably made the kind of castles Alaire knew of
impossible. Squat and round, the palace perched in
the cliff above the town.
"Doesn't look much like a castle," Alaire said
absently, as he urged his horse to follow Naitachal
down a steep section of road. "How are we supposed
to get across this bay?"
The Dark Elf said nothing as they drew closer to
the shore, where the road came to a complete stop. A
clanking bell on the flat boat caught his attention, and
as the people reacted he realized that this must be a
signal the craft was about to leave. A ferry! Alaire
thought in surprise. He had never seen a ferry large
enough to take several laden carts and wagons at once.
The only ferry he had ever seen could only take a sin-
gle donkey and its little cart.
"They have a full load already," Naitachal observed.
A man and a woman began moving about the boat,
tying down wheels, herding people to benches along
the sides. "Or maybe not," he added, pulling out a
purse of coins.
They rode straight up to the boatmaster. He'd
started to pull the ramps back onto his ship, but
stopped when he saw the silver. The gray-haired boat-
master seemed as fit as a man of thirty, despite his
ancient, wrinkled face. With a visible effort he turned
away from the coins, shaking his head and saying
wordlessly, no, we can take no more.
Naitachal held up a large silver coin, and the boat-
master paused, as if considering. He came over and
studied the coin, and muttered something to Nai-
tachal in a language Alaire didn't understand. After
biting it, he grinned widely, and motioned for them to
board the ferry, horses and all.
Alaire dismounted before they were underway and
tethered his horse. With several other able-bodied
passengers he helped the boatmaster pole the craft
across the bay. The water never got very deep, and
what had appeared to be a large bay turned out to be a
marsh dotted with tiny islands, around which other
boats were moored A cold, icy wind whipped around
them, and Alaire was grateful for the exercise; it
helped him to limber up and keep warm.
If the boatmaster was ambivalent about them, sev-
eral of the other passengers were the opposite: One
man and woman, evidently farmers and wearing con-
servative black and white clothing, kept glaring at both
Alaire and Naitachal with resentful and suspicious
glances.
Must not see too many foreigners, particularly from
the sunny south, he thought, remembering to smile
when their eyes happened to meet.
Naitachal seemed to take this all without a single
sign that he noticed or cared. Alaire thought that it
might be because he got this kind of reaction from hu-
mans all the time. Perhaps he was simply playing his
part, and he had no intention of showing that these
folk bothered him.
Soon they arrived at the pier on the other side of
the marshy bay, and as soon as they docked the Suino-
men natives wasted no time in putting distance
between themselves and the newcomers.
"First, a bath," Naitachal announced. "Then we
change into something impressive and expensive, and
go present ourselves properly. Do you see anything
that looks like an inn?"
The language of Suinomen closely resembled, but
was not identical to, their own. Right now the differ-
ences were enough to keep Alaire totally confused. He
finally ignored the voices and concentrated on simply
observing. He ought to be able to spot an inn simply
by the customers going in and out!
Naitachal led the way down the pier to the main
wharf. The stone dock ran along the curve of the
shore, out of sight, with little activity near the ferry.
People and goods appeared further on; sailors shouted
and cursed in a babble of strange tongues that were
more alien than the boatmaster's.
Naitachal seemed to know what he was doing; he
dismounted and led his horse up a stone ramp to a
higher street, and Alaire followed his example. On
this upper level there were more shops, and each
had a sign over the door that indicated the shop's
specialty; a wooden fish for seafood, a bee for
honey, wax and candles, a bigger fish with a fountain
coming out of its head for oil and some kind of meat
and ivory products —
That last sign puzzled Alaire. He could not imagine
what a fish had to do with oil and ivory.
Finally, they came across a sign with a crude bed
painted on it, and behind the inn was a small stable.
Paying for the brief use of a room and bath became an
exercise in pantomime, but the people here seemed to
appreciate silver, no matter whose face was on the
coins.
Alaire scrubbed himself pink in the communal bath
while Naitachal cooked himself in the adjoining steam
room. They returned to their room wrapped in
woolen robes supplied by the inn. The bardling had
had only the briefest glimpse of the clothing his father
had supplied for them. He almost choked on laughter
when he saw his Master's outfit. Now Naitachal wore a
frilly, lace-dripping shirt, a scarlet, gold-trimmed coat,
and scarlet satin breeches. A gold-trimmed scarlet hat
with a trailing plume crowned the silver-white hair.
The entire outfit was the land of thing young and fool-
ish nobles in Althea would wear to impress one other.
The knee-high, scarlet leather boots were equally
grand, and the gold heels were simply the penultimate
touch of nonsense. No one would be able to fear
someone who dressed like that.
Perhaps that was exactly what Father had in mind.
"Not bad," Alaire commented, trying on his own
courtiers garb. "Even if it makes you look like a
procurer."
"It does not" Naitachal protested, glancing at his
reflection in a door-length mirror. "My father would
have been proud to see me like this. Who do you sup-
pose decided to make it some other color than black?"
"Father, of course," Alaire said, pulling on a boot.
His outfit was nowhere near as grand as his Master's,
but it felt good to wear fine clothes again. He had
fallen out of the habit when he started training under
Naitachal; after all, it hardly made sense to wear silks
and satins for sword practice. "I suspect he wants to
emphasize your heritage, without suggesting that you
might be a practicing Necromancer, to gain some sort
of leverage."
"Your father is canny," the Bard replied. "My race is
impossible to hide, so why not announce it? As the
proverb says, 'if you're going to walk on thin ice, you
might as well dance.'" He strutted grandly in front of
the mirror. The gesture was so, well, unelflike Alaire
burst out laughing.
"What do you find so amusing, human?" Naitachal
demanded, fiercely.
Alaire snorted to see him standing there, hands on
hips. "It just looks as if... well... you're modeling a
dress."
"I do not. I have not ever," Naitachal said indig-
nantly. Then he paused, sheepishly. "Well. Truthfully, I
have..."
He went on to tell Alaire about the time Kevin and
his group dressed up as dancing girls to flee Westerin.
By the time he finished, Alaire had doubled over in
laughter.
Naitachal stood over him, with his arms crossed
over his chest, glaring like a black-and-scarlet, pom-
pous peacock. "Well, it worked," he said at last.
Alaire collected himself and straightened the fine
silk shirt and suede breeches. "Think we should carry
swords?"
Naitachal shrugged. "Of course. It's expected, out
here."
Alaire thought he could read something else, a
brief, disturbing expression in the elf's eyes.
And daggers too, he thought, buckling the jeweled
knives to his belt. Naitachal led the way out of the inn,
into the streets of Rozinki.
The stable hands had done an exceptional job of
grooming the horses. No doubt this and the brief rest
had refreshed the beasts, which fidgeted and danced
on the cobblestone streets of Rozinki. They certainly
knew what cobblestones were; they came from the
royal stables, and had no reason to act as if they had
never felt stone under their feet before. Their antics
gave Alaire something to think about besides their
current situation.
"Be young and stupid," Naitachal said, as they
guided their horses up the ramps and streets leading
to the palace. "Everyone will be certain to ignore you,
and they'll dismiss anything you might let slip. In other
words, be yourself."
Alaire felt his face grow hot at the sly glance Nai-
tachal cast him, but before he could protest, he saw for
himself the wisdom of such a move. I remember the
way the elders of Fenrich always ignored the young
and foolish boys of the village back home. Perhaps I
should chase girls — discretely of course — 1 remem-
ber what that one old man used to say. About how in
the springtime, when the blood runs away from the
head and the mind freezes, the only difference between
a young man and a goat is that you can eat the goat
when you get tired of its games.
"But don't overdo it," Naitachal hastened to add.
"Oh, certainly not," Alaire said. "I don't have a silly
impulse in my body. After all, I don't go around wear-
ing dresses, or pouring ice-cold springwater on my
friends."
Even though Naitachal said nothing, Alaire saw the
slightest grin of satisfaction on the dark, elven fea-
tures.
They rode in silence then, to concentrate on con-
trolling their skittish beasts. In between hauling his
horse's head down and curbing his prancing, Alaire
studied the city, which followed the hill's natural
curves. High above, the castle presided over the town
and bay like a squat, stony frog. All the city's streets led
upwards to it The cobblestone streets themselves had
seen better days and there were places where the cob-
bles were missing altogether. Some of the less
populated streets, dark in the shadows of decaying
stone buildings on either side of them, stank of stale
beer and urine. Though not clearly marked, these
establishments were probably taverns, their doors and
iron-shuttered windows open to air out the fetid inte-
riors. The barkeepers, bleary-eyed, casually threw
unconscious drunks into the limestone gutters. Alaire
rode without comment. There were always cheap tav-
erns, cheap beer, and cheap drunks to populate the
first and drink the second. There probably always
would be.
Then, in a more cheery section of town, the struc-
tures were all of wood, with more windows to let in
light and air. Instead of thatch, lush green moss cov-
ered the roofs. This was obviously a business district,
and native Suinomites swarmed markets and shops, all
wearing dieren garments of one style or another.
When they turned to look at the two Altheans, they
stared at their horses. Everyone else rode the splay-
footed dieren, if they rode anything. Not another
horse was in sight
"Do you notice anything .. . peculiar?" Naitachal
asked quietly as they rode past aisles of merchants
hawking fresh vegetables and live poultry.
Alaire had to admit he had, but he wasn't sure what
it was. Granted, this was a foreign country. The lan-
guage here seemed to be a mixture of their own and
one other, a heavy, guttural tongue that was rough on
the ears. The city, even back in the tavern district, was
immaculately clean of trash and sewage. He could
only assume Rozinki had an efficient sewer system
and equally efficient rubbish-collectors. Even in Silver
City one found telltale garbage, but not here. Cleanli-
ness obsessed these humans.
Then he saw what it was that was so unusual here.
The humans. Only humans, here.
No White or Dark Elves, no orcs, no dwarves. The
signs also were in the human tongue, and there was
nothing written in Elven, Dwarven or Orcish.
Alaire began to feel very uncomfortable for Nai-
tachal. He glanced over at his Master, relieved to find
his ridiculous hat completely covered the top, pointed
portion of his ears. He looked human in every other
way. Though he was the only black human among
these people, he didn't seem to be attracting nearly as
much attention as his gelding.
"This is a very . . . human settlement," Naitachal
noted, echoing Alaire's thoughts. "Only humans."
"Yes, I see," Alaire said. "But let me point out that
your absurd hat covers your ears. You look human."
Naitachal looked relieved. "Of course I do," he said,
but didn't sound completely convinced. His nose
wrinkled "I must have imagined that smell just then."
"What smell was that?"
The unmistakable odor of tar and feathers."
By the time they reached the castle, the sun pre-
pared to set on the sea. Already the air had become
considerably frostier; Alaire wished he had not packed
up the dieren coat, even if it didn't go with anything he
now wore.
Archenomen's palace was considerably larger than
it had appeared from across the bay. A lesser wall sur-
rounded it, perhaps for ornamentation, since it did not
compare to the castle itself. Either by design or acci-
dent, it was as black as Naitachal; every stone, every
metal fixture, every wooden adornment, including the
twin doors of the main entrance.
Guards dressed much like the ones who had
approached them earlier that day came forward with,
of all the silly things, ceremonial spears. Alaire smoth-
ered a smile with faint amusement. They were thin
and gaudy and would never make a suitable weapon;
he would have preferred his own short dagger in a
fight to one of those frail things. Alaire relaxed, know-
ing no fight was likely to occur, in spite of the guards
and their arrogant stance.
"State your business," one of the guards said with
brusque politeness.
Naitachal rode forward, and bowed over the neck
of his horse. "We have come to see the king of this
land, Archenomen. I am Ambassador Naitachal, rep-
resenting the kingdom of Althea, appointed by King
Reynard."
The two guards conferred privately, then one came
forward to examine Naitachal's papers. Alaire could
only suppose that he hadn't identified Naitachal as a
Dark Elf, yet. His expression was bland as he took the
letter and scroll back.
Nodding to the Bard, the guard said, "Go with
him," indicating the other guard. "No horses," he
added.
So here they dismounted, and stable hands
appeared to take their horses. The doors were a good
two stories high, and the knockers were so heavy the
guard had trouble lifting one. One solid boom
announced their presence.
A small window opened, through which the guard
spoke to an unseen figure in the unknown tongue. He
beckoned to Naitachal, who again relinquished his
papers. The letter and scroll disappeared through this
window, and the huge twin doors slowly opened.
The small figure who greeted them did not inspire
fear or confidence. Alaire's first impression was of a
man who had risen as far as he could as a servant, and
still didn't like his position. He was old enough to be
Alaire's father, but was thinner and more gaunt than
Naitachal. The livery he wore had all the trappings of
an upper servant's attire, though a little less elaborate
than what Alaire saw at home. What struck Alaire as
odd was the long flowing cloak that trailed behind
him. The thin fabric was useless for providing warmth.
The man certainly carried himself as if he thought he
was serving in a place far below the rank he truly
deserved. Does he have royal blood?
Alaire's first fear, however, was that the servant
would spot him for what he was: royalty. Upper ser-
vants had a way of spotting these things. Alaire looked
away and tried to appear submissive, bowing his head
slightly, as he had seen his father's secretary act at
home.
"Please, enter," the servant said nervously. "Wel-
come to the House of Archenomen. I am Paavo, the
head of the house here. The guards inform me that
you are... ambassadors from Althea?"
"Naitachal," said the Dark Elf. "And this is my sec-
retary, Alaire of ... house Turonen," he added,
improvising. "I do hope we haven't come at an inop-
portune time. It's been a long hard ride, but if the
King isn't receiving today we would be pleased to call
tomorrow."
Alaire stifled a laugh. It would be rude for a king to
refuse to see any ambassador with proper credentials.
His Master's statement bordered on the impolite, as it
suggested that Archenomen might commit a blunder
by refusing to see them. Perhaps I'm assuming too
much here, Alaire thought. This is, after all, a foreign
land, with its own rules of etiquette. For all I know we
are the ones being rude, calling without prior notifica-
tion.
His first impression seemed to be correct, since
Paavo quickly ushered them through a grand gallery,
where three young servants were lighting hundreds of
small candles on a chandelier. They stared at Naitachal
as they passed, but paid no attention to Alaire.
The bardling wanted badly to gawk, and finally
decided that the best way to handle this was to do just
that. If he looked like a highborn idiot, the land of
young man an envoy might be saddled with, he could
well be taken for harmless.
So he gawked, the young servants smirked, and
Paavo looked pained. Naitachal caught the ruse and
sighed audibly, and he and Paavo exchanged knowing
glances.
Just as we wanted it, Alaire thought, wondering just
how far to take the silly-ass routine. He decided to
wait until someone took a keen interest in him before
proving there was nothing interesting about him.
Paavo led them to a smaller chamber, crowded with
people in gaudy, expensive-looking clothing — though
nothing as gaudy as Naitachal's scarlet glory. On a dais
at the end of the room, there was a gilded throne; in
that throne was a man who could only be the King.
He wore a cape of purple velvet, lined with ermine,
and a robe of the same material, embroidered with
bits of gold and amber. A thin, delicately trimmed
beard covered a thick set of jowls, and from his girth it
was obvious he ate very well. His eyes peered from the
white, doughy flesh like candied green cherries,
regarding them with a combination of curiosity and
caution. Around him lay rugs of fur, not dieren, but
possibly bear.
High above the throne, set into the wall and ham-
mered into brass or even a plate of thin gold, was a
device of some kind, with the prominent letter A in
the center.
Two young men, boys, really, stood at attention at
either side of the King. Servants, Alaire supposed.
They wore hose and tight, formal jerkins, with a dou-
ble skirt of more purple velvet slashed into panes. The
effect was striking, Alaire had to admit, and began to
wonder if the King's personal servants here were rela-
tives, or perhaps favored by-blows. He stayed several
steps behind Naitachal as he approached the King,
and was grateful no one paid the slightest bit of atten-
tion to him.
Everyone in the royal circle regarded Naitachal
with cool detachment, though Alaire detected con-
cealed surprise in the King. He wasn't ready for a
black ambassador, he noted with amusement. Wait till
the King sees the rest of him!
With an exaggerated motion, Naitachal bowed
before the King as he removed his absurd feathered
hat, revealing the two long, pointed elven ears.
Pandemonium erupted in the room. The King
hissed as he drew back in surprise, a look of horror and
dread coming over his royal features. He even held his
arms up, as if protecting himself from anything origi-
nating from Naitachal's general direction. The two
young servants were guards as well, and from stands
behind them they drew short swords and took a posi-
tion halfway between the King and Naitachal.
A moment later large double doors burst open on
either side of the throne. Five soldiers, like the ones
they had met on the road, charged in, but froze in
their tracks when they saw Naitachal. Behind the
soldiers was a tiny trio of magicians, with purple
robes and ridiculous, conical hats, who immediately
formed a protective circle around the King.
I think we just made a big mistake. This isn't going
very well, Alaire thought as he watched their first
attempts at diplomatic relations crumble to dust. Resi-
dency in the palace dungeon was beginning to look
like a real possibility.
"Elf!" the King roared. "Dark Elf. Why have you
polluted us with your presence?"
The soldiers stood their ground, shifting nervously.
The young servant-guards stood defiantly, inching
closer to the Dark Elf, swordtips flashing with
reflected candlelight.
Naitachal yawned, discretely, and smiled.
"Your highness," Paavo interjected politely,
approaching the King on his throne. Although he low-
ered his voice, the acoustics were such that Alaire
could easily pick out what the servant was saying.
"It would seem wise," Paavo said, in hurried,
hushed tones, "to remember that, despite his unfavor-
able heritage, this is the Ambassador from Althea. I
doubt seriously he is here to harm you, magically or
otherwise. Perhaps we should hear him out?"
Alaire cringed at the insolence. Never would a ser-
vant presume to offer advice to the King! he thought in
indignation. Then something else occurred to him. So.
Perhaps this is no mere servant.
King Archenomen seemed to consider this before
snapping his fingers three times, quickly. The soldiers
withdrew, slowly, uncertainly, behind the doors. The
magicians, looking more like religious leaders (which
perhaps they were), remained, looking down their
long, pointed noses at Naitachal. The two boys
returned their short swords to their stands, and took
their places beside the King.
"I beg pardon, your Highness," Naitachal said
grandly. "Perhaps I should have sent prior warning
about my... family," he said, pausing at the end, as if
uncertain how to phrase the statement. "But I did pre-
sent my credentials and my nature to two of your
guards upon the road here. Perhaps they have not yet
reported this to you?"
He raised an eyebrow, and the King scowled.
Someone is going to pay for that little omission....
"I bear a letter from King Reynard himself. Perhaps
this will explain the situation in a little more detail."
He smiled, a smile so gentle and without guile that
Alaire could almost believe it himself. "I fear, your
highness, that I have allowed complacency to cause an
uncomfortable situation."
"Quite the contrary," King Archenomen said. His
voice boomed, but the slight crack on the last syllable
indicated some residual shock. "I'm afraid I've over-
reacted. Those of Suinomen seldom run across citi-
zens of other countries, especially members of less —
other races." He smiled broadly, and insincerely.
Lesser races, Alaire thought, completing the sen-
tence another way, and sighed to himself. We have our
work cut out for us.
"Please, have dinner with us tonight. You may stay
in our royal visitor's suite. Will your... servant be stay-
ing with you, or should we put him in the servant's
quarters?"
Maddeningly, Naitachal seemed to consider this.
When he cast a brief glance in Alaire's direction, Alaire
thought he sensed the hint of a devious smile.
You wouldn't! Alaire thought, although he knew
that the Bard would, if he thought it amusing enough.
After considering this, Naitachal said, indifferently,
"No, I will be requiring his presence for secretarial
work. Allow me to introduce Alaire. Although he is my
assistant, he is near and dear to the King's heart"
Naitachal let this last statement dangle in the air for
just the right amount of time, with just the right
amount of inflection, suggesting innuendo. Near to the
King's heart? Could he be implying to His Majesty
that I'm a royal bastard? The ruse seemed to make
sense. That would explain my clothes, and why I'm
with Naitachal. Otherwise, it would look odd.
The King gazed thoughtfully at Alaire, then, with a
knowing look, nodded in his direction. "I see. We will
be most hospitable to you both."
Naitachal didn't seem to hear this. "If it is conven-
ient, could we put him in an adjoining room? If not, he
can sleep on the floor of my room."
What?
"Certainly, certainly," the King said. "Paavo, would
you please show them their quarters?"
As they filed out of the royal chambers, Alaire
thought, indignantly, hoping that Naitachal would
somehow hear the thoughts — On the floor? Really!
Master, we are going to have a little talk very soon!
Chapter IV
Alaire was glad to find a comfortable, if lumpy, goose-
feather bed tucked away in a corner of his room,
which turned out to be the antechamber to Nai-
tachal's quarters. The walls were the ubiquitous stone;
the floors, as they seemed to be everywhere in the
palace, were reddish-gold planks of a wood he
couldn't identify. This explained the pleasant, spicy
aroma that permeated the rooms. Naitachal had a
plush room with plastered walls and ceiling, painted
with elaborate scenes of buxom wood nymphs. The
room, unlike Alaire's, had its own fireplace, with a
chimney of carved stone, and an ample supply of fire-
wood. The enormous canopied bed could have
accommodated a family of ten.
"I might want to sleep on the floor, anyway," Alaire
said, standing in front of the fireplace. He shivered in
the chill that already filled the apartment, although it
was still early in the evening.
"I doubt that dragging the mattress in here would
raise any eyebrows." Naitachal frowned, in a way that
was particularly disturbing to Alaire. "They probably
expect bizarre, eccentric behavior from both of us. I
must be the first elf of any color most of these people
have ever seen. I knew that intellectually, of course,
but actually dealing with it is irritating."
Alaire wanted to quiz him more on his first impres-
sions, but a knock sounded on the door. A young
servant informed them dinner was ready, and that His
Majesty King Archenomen requested their presence
at the table.
Naitachal's look seemed to say, We'll compare notes
later, as they walked down the torchlit halls to the din-
ing room, where Alaire smelled the overpowering
aroma of cooked meat and potatoes.
Eating with the King and his court turned out to be
a complicated affair. A multi-tiered floor held several
long tables, each one at a different level. It looked
rather as if someone had carved narrow platforms into
the side of a hill, and dropped a section of table onto
each one. The lower tables were less decorated than
the ones atop. The one at the apex had a huge cooked
pig as its centerpiece. The King presided over the
event like a judge, scrutinizing everyone who came in.
No queen was in sight, and Alaire made a note to find
out if there was one, or if the King had a harem of con-
cubines, as sometimes happened in other distant
lands. The servant led Naitachal to this higher tier, and
automatically Alaire went after them.
"No, no, no!" one of the kitchen wenches admon-
ished, waving a wooden spoon. She was hauling a
kettle of gravy that probably outweighed them both.
"Only the ambassador dines with the King. You sit
down there," she said sharply, as if he was an idiot, and
went on with her task.
Alaire didn't like the sound of the phrase "down
there" one bit. She led him to a section of tables
almost a story and a half below the King's. Naitachal
continued to the head table without him. Oh well, he
thought. So be it. Perhaps I can learn something useful
down there.
Those of the lowest social order ate here, he
soon learned. Even Paavo sat a tier above him. The
head servant sneered down at Alaire as he took his
seat, a miserable little stool at a bare wooden table.
Bad manners at the dinner table are ill-advised,
Alaire seethed inwardly. Particularly when everyone
has knives.
Alaire found himself at a table lined with Suinomen
natives who evidently did not speak his language,
although some of the servants bringing food to the table
did. Alaire appraised their clothing with a knowing eye,
and guessed that these folk were the servants or
secretaries of those above. Except for one thing; every
one of them had a cape or cloak of fur. The dining hall
was a bit drafty, but didn't warrant the use of furs he saw
around him, and he wondered if there was something
no one had told them about There always is.
He saw a flock of young girls at the tables two levels
up. None of them were particularly attractive, at least
by his standards, and some he even cringed at. They
watched his table eagerly. He glanced up, far up,
where Naitachal was sitting, and saw right away that
the Dark Elf was too far to offer advice or distraction.
Some of the young women were discreet, but oth-
ers stared openly at him. Alaire was afraid to return
the looks, at least too directly. Even flirting could be
dangerous. They can't know I'm a prince, he thought
frantically. I hope Naitachal is covering my tracks up
there. I wouldn't want to become part of a deal. Now it
wasn't only the girls near him who watched him from
under their long, coquettish eyelashes. Some of the
girls sat at the topmost table, with his Master and the
King. They must be his daughters. If they find out who
I really am, I could become some sort of bargaining
chip! Aaaargh!
Halfway through the meal Alaire noticed an empty
wooden cup near his plate. Occasionally a servant
would come by and drop a single flower petal into the
vessel, and when he looked inside it was half full. The
petals had something — names? — written delicately
on them in an odd script. He shuddered, considering
the possible meanings and ramifications.
Could these petals be a trysting invitation? He
guessed about thirty petals were in there now, and
they were still coming. Gods! There wouldn't be any-
thing left! he thought in horror. He took extra care not
to touch the cup after that. Better to be cold and dis-
tant than get into something there would be no getting
out of!
Besides the petals, the situation was hardly com-
fortable. Paavo had claimed they were the guests of
honor, but he was eating with the kitchen help. The
food was terrible, since the meat was unidentifiable,
and nearly raw, the bread burned or still doughy, and
the rest all seemed to consist of variations on dried
peas and beans cooked in fish-oil.
He was here to observe, so he did his best to ignore
the food and the girls and keep his eyes open. He
noticed surreptitious glimpses towards Naitachal from
the greater nobles, some even overtly hostile, and he
wondered if this was because of his Dark Elven heri-
tage or if it was because he represented a country
Suinomen had chosen to make into an enemy.
Could be a little of both, he thought. At the first few
mouthfuls of mystery-meat, his hunger had overcome
his aversion. Now the edge was off his appetite, and he
wished the evening could just end.
Despite Naitachal's dark presence at the board of
honor, the meal became festive, with idle chatter in
both languages flowing from table to table. A servant
offered Alaire wine, but he politely refused, knowing
that even a little bit in his exhausted state would lay
him out on the floor. He seldom drank anyway.
As the meal ended, a six-piece consort struck up
some dance music. Evidently there was no prohibition
here against couples dancing, and a few of the more
bold or boisterous joined in a lively gigue in a section
of floor cleared away by the servants. Alaire took this
chance to try to get back to Naitachal.
He encountered a barrier of noblemen and their
assistants; apparently, during dinner, word had circu-
lated that it might be wise to cultivate Ambassador
Naitachal's acquaintance. From what little Alaire saw,
the nobles showed him at least the respect his office
deserved. However, they kept a certain uneasy dis-
tance from his Master, who remained a solitary black
figure ringed by a moat of stark wooden floors,
bridged only by the briefest bow and a few hurried
words.
Later, I'll talk to him, Alaire thought. He seems to be
doing fine, given the circumstances. I would only
attract attention if I made a point of joining him.
He backed away from the impromptu receiving
line, looking for something to do. He felt completely
useless. But then, that was the idea.
At another table sat several apparently available
young ladies (not of highborn, but of some other
ranked or wealthy class). A young man, a teenager
really, stood in front of the table, telling an animated
tale of some sort, gesturing wildly with his arms in
wide sweeping motions. The boy's striking attire im-
pressed Alaire more than his demeanor did His white
and red cloak, embroidered with gold thread, hung to
the side. He wore the most unusual gold hose the
Prince had ever seen. Despite the finery, however, he
looked like an unmade bed. Half his shirt hung out
over his hose, and his white scarf looked ready to fall
off. As he drew closer, he saw why; the boy was drunk
out of his mind.
Alaire thought the boy was telling the women a
humorous story in the native language. Perhaps he's
some kind of well-born court jester, Alaire thought.
But as he continued to watch, it became obvious that,
despite the young man's brave (and intoxicated) at-
tempts at gallantry, the women were laughing at him.
He was obviously the son of one of the nobles
meeting with Naitachal, given his dress, and he'd had
far too much to drink.
Alaire's heart went out to the stranger, as he knew
too well the stresses a royal court could put on young
men and women. He's of the age when parents start
pairing their children off, whether or not they even
know each other, he thought, reminding himself that
his father had given him more choices than most
noble children. It could even be that the poor young-
ster had just been informed of his impending
nuptials ... and that the bride made one of the dieren
look like a better mate.
Better save this lad before he makes a complete fool
of himself, he decided, though he knew it was prob-
ably too late. Or at least, before he offends someone.
Alaire wasn't even sure the young man spoke the
Althean language; he approached his target with some
trepidation, and took him by the elbow to lead him off
in what he hoped was a friendly manner. He half
expected the stranger to swing around and hit him, or
at least try to escape his "rescuer." Yet in the general
confusion, with people of all castes milling around,
and music increasing in volume, he led the young man
away from the table without arousing his suspicion, or,
apparently, his attention.
Alaire took him to a balcony that looked over the
courtyard below. No one else was out there in the
cold, and Alaire shivered in a wind which bit sharply at
his bare skin.
The young man started to shiver a little as well, as
he looked about in a land of daze, as if he could not
imagine how the table full of young women had
turned into a balcony. Good. Maybe this will sober him
up a little. Alaire gently turned him, so lanterns burn-
ing on either side of the balcony illuminated his face.
He looked at Alaire, bewildered, as if it was the first
time he had noticed him, and began babbling in his
native tongue.
Alaire shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, whoever you
are. I don't speak your language at all."
If I can keep him out here in this cold he might
straighten up a little. Alaire had been drunk exactly
twice in his life, once on his thirteenth birthday and
then, more recently, at the wedding of the daughter of
the Mayor of Fenrich. Both times, ice applied to the
forehead seemed to take care of the more unpleasant
side effects. This wind was practically the same thing.
"A southerner, then," the boy said suddenly. "Don't
get many of you around here."
Though it was with a heavy accent, including a
strong rolling of the r's, he spoke Alaire's language
clearly, without hesitation. As the boy sobered, he
examined the bardling, in a way that reminded Alaire
of the King's look as they entered. The youngster even
took the sleeve of his shirt and studied the fabric.
One thing was certain, this youngster was not one of
the servants.
He must have said that aloud, for the young man
started. "You're no peasant yourself!" the boy said
loudly, but it did not sound as if he was trying to be
impolite. "What brings you to Rozinki?"
"Business, of a sort," Alaire said, hesitating. "I'm .. .
Alaire, an assistant to the Ambassador of Althea. The
dark fellow, up there with the King."
"Ambassador from Althea? Didn't know we even
had one." His face went sour, as if he'd bit into a
bad apple. "Who wants to discuss kingdom business
tonight, anyway? It's not even midnight yet!"
As the boy spoke, a puff of breeze blew his breath
into Alaire's face, and Alaire wrinkled his nose. The
boy smelled like a brewery.
How much has he had to drink anyway? Alaire
wondered, since he didn't recall seeing him at the din-
ner earlier. There was something about the way he
phrased things that made Alaire wonder: Is he some
by-blow of the royal family too?
"Then I suppose you've already had the pleasure of
meeting my father," the stranger continued, sardoni-
cally. The way he emphasized the word "father"
suggested they didn't get along very well.
"Well," Alaire said, uncertainly. "Perhaps. I'm sorry,
but which man was your father?" He knew he was
probably committing a sizable blunder by admitting
ignorance, but could think of no other way to find out
A broad smile creased the stranger's boyish fea-
tures, a mischievous gleam that made Alaire instantly
wary.
The young man led Alaire to the balcony doors,
where the supper guests were still milling about, cir-
cling around Naitachal like curious, but frightened
little birds about a great black eagle.
"See the big fat man up there in the purple coat?"
the boy asked ungraciously.
The only person in purple was the King. "You mean
King Archenomen?" Alaire was aghast
This is the crown prince? Drunk as a soldier on
leave?
"Prince Kainemonen at your service," the boy
announced, bowing an exaggerated bow, removing his
hat with a sweeping gesture. "But you can call me Kai.
Everyone else does. When they don't call me useless,
wastrel, or ne'er-do-well." He teetered, just a little,
and Alaire gently pushed him upright. "I think I was
an accident. I don't look like any of the family. Perhaps
I was ..."
Alaire stood frozen in shock at the unasked for reve-
lations, but Kai seemed to realize that he was babbling
things he shouldn't and interrupted himself with a
shrug.
"Well, probably not. Such things would be too
much an embarrassment. I doubt they would have let
me live. But yes, gods help Suinomen, I'll be king,
whenever Father croaks."
Holy heavens, he despises his father and himself,
and he doesn't care who knows it, Alaire thought with
dismay. Assuming he's telling the truth. Could be, the
ale has gone to his mind, so he thinks he's a prince. But
everything else certainly fits. His eyebrows raised
when he noticed the boy's ring, a chunky, gold piece
that flashed when the candle-light caught it just right.
The large letter "A" A simplified version of the Arche-
nomen Coat of Arms I saw hanging over the King's
throne. Perhaps he is the Prince after all.
Then again, maybe he was only what Alaire was
pretending to be; a royal bastard.
I might as well keep talking to him, whether he is or
not. Even a drunk having grand delusions can supply
a lot of interesting information.
"The good news is," the boy continued glibly, "I
don't have to do a thing around here! Just have fun.
That's what he ordered me to do, anyway; have fun,
don't poke my nose into politics or business, and stay
out of his way."
Alaire wondered just how much to share with Kai.
At home, a prince did more than just "have fun."
Derek, the Crown Prince of Althea and the oldest of
the brothers, took a personal interest in the affairs of
the nation. After all, he would eventually be in charge
of it. What better way to learn a job than to do it?
From the age of thirteen Derek had been in on coun-
cil meetings, inspected the Palace Guard regularly,
and in general kept abreast of everything going on.
Including, Alaire assumed, this little trip their father
sent them on.
Alaire regarded the drunk lad before him, and
found it difficult to imagine his caring about the affairs
of Suinomen.
"Is that all you do?' Alaire asked. He seems to be in
quite a talkative mood. Why not encourage it?
"Just about," Kai replied. Alaire eyed a marble
bench nearby, considered moving closer to it, in case
Kai should need to sit down. "Father told me to stay
out of his business, so I do. They don't let me do any-
thing involving the kingdom, or the Guard. And
nobody in the kingdom will have anything to do with
me, except Captain Lyam and Sir Jehan."
Remember those names. They could be important,
Alaire thought. Though it is starting to look like this
Kai might be a dead end for inside information, there
is a lot of general information I could get from him.
Things the whole court knows, but we don't. For
instance, why do they want to invade Althea?
"Well, Alaire," Kai said, slapping his shoulder. "How
would you like to flee all this pompous nonsense and
go see some real entertainment?"
Well.. . why not?
"Sure, Kai," Alaire said, cautiously. "But I really
need to inform my Master that I'll be going, first."
"Oh, you'll do nothing of the sort," Kai said, good-
naturedly. "You'll get us both into trouble and
someone will probably stop us. I'll have one of the ser-
vants tell him for us, after we're gone."
That didn't exactly sound like a good idea. "Well...
I don't know about this...."
But he had protested too late. "Come on," Kai said
joyfully, grabbing Alaire by the wrist. "This place is
getting boring anyway."
Reluctantly, Alaire let the boy lead him away. He
had both bad and good feelings about this. Good,
because he knew he would learn something about this
bizarre kingdom. Bad, because he could tell by the
feral gleam in Kai's eye that they would both be rump-
deep in trouble when they got back.
Assuming they didn't get rump-deep in trouble
long before they got back.
"Got your sword with you?" Kai asked as they
dashed down stone stairs at the end of the balcony,
into the chill night.
Chapter V
Kai had obviously planned the deceptively hasty get-
away in advance. A royal carriage, lamplit at the four
corners, and gilded like a maidens jewel-casket, was
waiting for them just inside the palace walls. Har-
nessed to it were two large dieren, stomping and
snorting, eager to get underway. But despite the fin-
ery, which left no doubt as to which family it belonged
to, it was obvious as they drew nearer that the carriage
had seen better days. Somewhat dented and worn,
from the number of scrapes, splintered places, and
missing bits of trim, it had apparently clipped many
trees and lampposts. When Alaire saw the driver, a
grubby sort of servant, in dark, rumpled clothes,
clutching a leather wine flask, he knew why it looked
that way. The driver looked to be as drunk as Kai.
Maybe drunker.
"Don't worry about him," Kai said, waving casually
at the driver, who ignored them both. "He can find the
taverns blindfolded"
"That's a relief," Alaire replied wryly, stepping into
the carriage. The carriage lurched forward, and in a
few moments it was careening down the hill at full
speed
"Father always does get angry when I take off from
official events like this," Kai shouted over a deafening
rattle, seating himself awkwardly in the shifting, sway-
ing vehicle. "Says it embarrasses him for me to go off
like this. With any luck no one will miss me. Ah, there
it is!" Kai produced a leather flask and handed it gra-
ciously to Alaire.
Glad I wore at least a thin coat to supper, Alaire
thought, watching his frozen breath, visible even
inside the carriage. Gods, Kai probably doesn't even
feel the cold, in his condition. He braced himself in the
frigid, plush seat, stained with wine and beer and who
knew what else.
He took only a small sip and returned it. Not too
bad. A red, fruity party wine. Just the thing for young,
inexperienced tastes. Nothing like the wine he would
have had at home, for supper. He respected good wine
— Naitachal would have killed him if he had simply
gulped the stuff with no care for anything but alcohol
content. And after that bout of sickness and hangover
at thirteen, he had learned to respect what bad wine
could do. Kai, naturally, took a long swallow of the
decadent stuff. Probably strong, too. A quick, cheap
drunk.
It was difficult to talk or drink, in the swaying vehi-
cle. They rode for some time, while Kai did most of
the babbling, sometimes shifting into his native lan-
guage. Mostly useless blather, Alaire realized after a
moment. Although it was hard to hear over the loud
clatter. The wooden cage Kai had imprisoned him in
was going full tilt, as fast as the dieren could go, Alaire
guessed. Twice, huge potholes violently jostled the
carriage contents, landing Alaire in the floor, and then
Kai on Alaire's lap, laughing hysterically. The rear axle
made a strange grinding noise, which got louder as
their journey progressed. What lethargy Alaire felt
earlier had evaporated. Now his blood roared in his
ears; he clutched the sides of the carriage and feared
for his life.
"Whoooooeeee!" Kai said as the vehicle slowed to a
halt, then gracelessly stopped. He tumbled onto the
floor as the carriage lurched once more. "Wanta go
back and do that again?"
Alaire, politely, but vehemently, refused. "No.
Where are we?"
"Where do you think?" Kai said, getting off the car-
riage floor, where he had landed. "Where the real fun
is. In the happy part of town!" He tumbled out the
door, leaving Alaire to follow.
Alaire emerged from the carriage, knees shaking,
and stepped down onto cobblestone. Without com-
ment, he noticed one of the carriage lamps had shaken
free and fallen to the street, somewhere behind them.
Also, a spoke in one of the wheels was missing.
Grateful to be on solid ground again, Alaire looked
quickly around the street where they had stopped. It
was a narrow, cobblestone avenue in an old part of
town, lined on either side by many cheap, ill-kept tav-
erns. A few torches lit the streets, with too many
shadows for Alaire's comfort.
A small group of men staggered out the door of the
tavern nearest them, singing and leaning on each oth-
ers' shoulders. Alaire had hoped to be able to let his
guard down, but when he saw the great contrast
between their clothing and everyone else's, he shud-
dered. Might as well paint a target on our backs.
Attack us, we're rich, he thought. Good thing Nai-
tachal's got most of the money.
But strangely, no one seemed to pay them any par-
ticular attention. The street crowd, rough workers,
ne'er-do-wells, loafers, probable thieves, who knew
what else, all seemed hell-bent on getting drunk that
night. As did Kai.
The Crown Prince led him down the long, four-
story canyon of bars, brothels and places that offered
"entertainment." Alaire's eyes nearly fell out of his
head when he saw an advertisement for a show. Some-
thing for everyone, he thought. That is, everyone
except non-humans. Not a sign of elves, orcs, or
dwarves anywhere.
Kai led him directly to the first tavern on the right.
Carved on the wooden sign hanging over the door,
dulled with age, was the image of a large dragon on its
back, its legs sticking straight up. The tongue lolled
lifelessly to one side. THE DEAD DRAGON INN, Alaire
read, deciphering the strange but legible Suinomen
script. Charming.
"Here we go," Kai said cheerfully, stepping over an
unconscious man blocking the doorway. "First stop."
"Of how many?" Alaire asked, not expecting an
answer.
The tavern was small, cramped and smoke-filled.
Through the haze Alaire made out about a dozen
tables, lined up on either side of a long, narrow room.
Barmaids scurried from table to table, balancing
wooden steins on teetering trays, serving rowdy cus-
tomers, fending passes, keeping up with the orders. In
one corner, a musician played a harp, singing some
ballad in the Suinomen tongue. His presence sur-
prised and cheered Alaire, who had resigned himself
to enduring the bellows and howls of drunks. Beauti-
ful. Maybe this will be fun after all.
Kai stood glaring at everyone in the tavern. When
Alaire finally noticed this, he thought the boy was
looking for a place to sit. Then he saw he was looking
for something else entirely.
"You, there, in the pansy outfit!" a large, drunk man
roared, from the nearest table. "This here be the
adult's bar! The nursery, it be down the street. Now
git!"
An odd silence fell over the tavern, with the excep-
tion of the harpist, who continued playing —
Though Alaire clearly saw the harpists muscles
tense, and his legs brace for a quick escape.
Alaire's hand crept close to the hilt of his blade.
Fully half the tavern turned to look at them, as a few
got up and made a hasty exit.
The table in question glistened with spilled ale. Five
men, sailors perhaps, had claimed it as their own. The
candle burning in the center was cheap, fat and guttering,
illuminating their bearded faces in brief, unpleasant
flashes. These were not pretty men; nor, from the
number of broken noses and scars, were they strangers to
a fight. A fight that would probably not stay or even start
fair. Alaire saw far too many scars on hands and arms,
marks which could only have come from sharpened steel.
And given their present mood, a joyless, surly one that
could quickly turn to violence, they seemed ready, eager,
to add a few more scars to their collection.
Kai seemed to revel in the attention. He gazed at
them belligerently. Five sets of bleary, ale-shot eyes
glared back.
Actually, four and a half. One of them has an eye
patch.
Kai grinned nastily. "Looks to me like you boys
need a mother to clean up after you. Look at that
table!" Turning to Alaire, he added, "I think we've al-
ready walked into the nursery. Orphanage, more like.
Orphans so ugly no one wants to take them in."
Kai! Shut up! Alaire wanted to scream. I'm good
with the sword, but not that bloody good! He briefly
considered pulling the boy out of there before a fight
started. By the hair, if necessary.
Except that he didn't think he'd be able to get them
out of there intact. Kai would certainly fight him,
probably yell further insults at the sailors and without
a doubt would precipitate the fight the Prince seemed
to want.
Instead, Alaire did the only thing he could do; he
watched the table, waiting for the tensing of muscles
that would signal an attack.
"What about your friend there?" one of the toughs
asked. "Pretty boy as he is. Makes me wonder, is he
your wife, or do you two like to dress up like girls to
make people think you're highborn?"
"Don't bother to guess," Kai snorted. "Don't bother
to think, you're not equipped for it. Where'd your
mothers find you five, anyway? Under a rock some-
where? No wonder they didn't want to keep you." He
grinned slyly. "Not a chance they could ever find five
men, or even one, ugly enough to claim paternity."
The five were slow to react, but they reacted. Prob-
ably the bit about paternity, Alaire suspected. That last
jibe triggered the expected muscle-tensing. They
might have been dense, but they weren't that stupid,
and Kai had just called them all bastards.
"Now come on boys, we don't want no trouble at
The Dead Dragon Inn," one of the barkeeps said in a
wheedling voice. But it was too late. The men ignored
him as if he was a fly, annoying, but powerless. They
rose as one, with fire in their eyes and snarls on their
faces.
"I was beginning to wonder if you boys were too
drunk to stand up," Kai said laughingly, and pulled his
sword.
As Alaire pulled his. The two nearest them came
after Kai, armed with short curved swords of a kind
he'd never seen before. How the devil do you counter
those? he thought in confusion. And are they going for
blood or...
They were.
The tall, uglier one, with a full face of hair that
looked like a bird's nest, smelling of ale and sweat and
salt water, charged him with a blood-curdling scream,
swinging his short blade in a way that left no doubts in
Alaire's mind. Kai had managed to work this one, at
least, into a killing rage.
Wonderful. Just wonderful...
Alaire engaged; the short sword clashed with his
longer blade, and Alaire suddenly discovered why the
blade was curved. The sailor bound his longer blade
before he had a chance to think, and nearly pulled it
out of his hand. He disengaged, only to find his blade
bound again. This time he backpedaled a few steps
and freed his sword again; the tough came after him,
still full of fighting fury.
Can't let him take my sword... He still had his jew-
eled dagger, tucked away under his shirt, but that
would never do against their weapons. The sailor
bobbed and wove like a snake, forcing Alaire to make
desperate deflections that were nothing like any of the
fighting styles Naitachal had taught him. If only Nai-
tachal was here!
But knowing the Dark Elf, he would probably sit
back and watch Alaire get out of this one himself. He
walked into it without Naitachal's help, after all.
I was only after information....
Kai moved into the periphery of his vision, a blur of
flashing metal and fine, white fabric, fighting two of
the uglies by himself.
He might be drunk but he sure fights well.
In fact, he was keeping up amazingly well with his
two opponents, each by himself twice Kai's size. One
of them had a gashed and bleeding wrist; Kai was still
untouched.
In fact, Kai was having the time of his life.
He wanted this to happen. Just like 1 thought. Alaire
flushed with sudden anger. When he got hold of Kai,
he'd beat the living daylights out of him!
But first he had to survive this brawl....
To do that, he had to stay calm and think his way
out. Easy, now. Anger and fear are the mind clouders.
He calmed, as Naitachal had taught him; concentrated
everything on the moment of now. His opponent
seemed to slow — and Alaire saw the disadvantages of
that odd little sword.
The moment of opportunity opened, and Alaire
struck for it.
This time Alaire bound the toughs blade, and
pulled it away; it dropped to the floor between them.
Before the sailor could reach for it, Alaire kicked it
into hidden shadows under the tables. Weaponless,
the man lost all the courage that ale had given him. He
turned and fled, leaving Alaire to find another oppo-
nent.
Get these two off Kai, he thought. But there were
five. Where'd the other—
A sword flashed at the edge of his vision, and he
ducked out of the way just in time, the shwwoooosh of
the blade loud in his ears.
In the corner, the harpist was manfully trying to
play on, singing "I'll Go No More Roving" as a strange
counterpoint to the dance of death in the front of the
tavern.
Alaire did not even bother to reflect on how close
that last strike had come, for this new opponent had
committed a little too much to the stroke and was off-
balance. Before he could recover, Alaire slapped his
blade aside, and thrust. It was not even a serious
attack, but it caused the other to stagger hastily back-
wards, tripping and falling backwards over one of the
frail little stools. In an effort to save himself, arms flail-
ing wildly, the man fell into three tables, knocking
their contents, wooden steins, mostly, clanking and
splashing in all directions. With a roar of anger, one of
the customers grabbed his emptied stein and broke it
over the toughs head, taking him out of the fight com-
pletely.
Kai! Where —
He glanced frantically around, at first unable to see
his companion. Then, the white blur reappeared from
the shadows, an angry little whirlwind that showed no
sign of exhaustion.
By now half the bar's customers had cleared out,
prudently, but a fair number remained, some waging
bets that Kai would come out unscratched. Amazingly,
this lot acted as if the fight was some kind of entertain-
ment staged for their benefit. Almost as if they had
expected it.
That little maniac, Alaire seethed. He wasn't
fighting two anymore, but three. And they were
huge — but their size was a handicap in the bar's
compact interior. Kai was still wearing that grin of
sardonic enjoyment, and he had already given them
a few bloody nicks.
Alaire paused at that, before throwing himself to
Kai's rescue. Is he playing with them? he wondered.
Kai had a wild, feral look on his face, no sign of fear,
only pleasure of the most animal sort.
Instead of flinging himself into the fight, Alaire
joined the spectators for a moment. Given the skill
Alaire had seen him display so far, he came to the con-
clusion the Crown Prince could have killed all of the
toughs by now, if he had truly wanted to. He was in no
danger; he never had been in any danger, not from the
very first! He was enjoying this!
And that explained the relaxed attitude of the
onlookers. Probably regulars, and familiar with the
Prince, they had known this was going to happen the
moment Kai walked into the bar!
Alaire was angry all over again. His attitude really
stinks. Reckless, foolish, starting fights when he has no
business doing so, and pulling me right along with
him! He didn't know I could fight! He could have got-
ten me killed!
"All right! Break it up!" a loud, authoritative voice
boomed behind him.
Alaire turned to see three uniformed men, guards
of some kind, standing in the doorway. They wore gray
cloaks with gold braid, shiny, black boots and a single,
silver star badge over the breast. And disapproving
looks.
The Watch, Alaire thought. Constables. Wonderful.
Now he's going to get us thrown into the local gaol!
Alaire tried to sheathe his sword before one of the
constables could catch him with it in his hand, but it
was too late; the one nearest him caught him in the
act. Oh, Gods, now what? he thought, dismayed.
What have I got into?
The entire population of the tavern froze. Kai
glanced over, his sword raised in mid-slash, looking
disappointed. His opponents backed away, slithering
towards the rear exit, where more of the official-looking
men appeared, blocking their way.
"You, and you," the first man said, pointing at Kai
and Alaire. "Come with me. Now."
Alaire briefly toyed with the notion of running like a
scared rabbit once they got outside. Heaven only knew
what penalties were waiting for them. He didn't think
diplomatic immunity extended to tavern-brawling.
He looked to Kai for cues. But the boy seemed
defeated, sullen, as if cheated of some bizarre pleas-
ure. He sheathed his sword with an air of disgust.
Alaire did the same, and followed the uniformed men
into a store room stacked high with ale kegs. No
chance to run here....
He noted however, with interest and hope, that the
constables didn't ask for their blades.
Diplomatic immunity, after all? Do they know me
already? I must have some kind of diplomatic immu-
nity in this situation....
Alaire thought frantically. No, they couldn't possibly
know who and what he was yet, not down here in the
city. But Kai, he has something better. He's the Crown
Prince! Does he do this often enough for the constables
to recognize him? Would his rank cover me as well?
Could I try a little Bardic persuasion — no, better not!
He paled, remembering there were severe penalties
for using magic. Better not even think too directly
about that.
The uniformed men instructed them to sit, and Kai
sat on the top of an upturned keg, carefully dusting it
off first, so as not to soil his clothing. His long legs dan-
gled awkwardly over the edge. He didn't seem too
concerned about the situation.
But then, he hadn't been concerned about picking a
fight with five men who were all much bigger than
either himself or his companion.
"What's going on?" Alaire said to Kai, finally, unwill-
ing to play the guessing game any longer. "Are we
going to gaol, or do we need to bribe someone?"
Kai waved the question away, as if it didn't matter.
"Don't be silly. Neither. I just need to see —" he
started, then another man entered the door to the
storeroom, and his face lit up. A broad, slightly ridicu-
lous grin spread across his boyish features.
The uniformed man, this one in solid black, with a
larger, golden star on his lapel, perhaps indicating
higher rank, strode in, sweeping them all with a single
glance. From the way the others deferred to him, he
was obviously their superior.
"Ah, what do we have here at The Dead Dragon
Inn this time?" he began, then stopped when he saw
Kai.
"Well hello there, Mac," Kai said, legs dangling against
the keg. "What brings you to this infamous part of town?"
"Oh gods," Mac, said, his face falling. "Is this what I
get for being a Watch Commander and your father's
friend from University? Putting up with your antics
whenever you get a wild idea and a little too much
wine in your belly?"
He walked over to Kai, shaking his head. "And this
time," he continued, glancing over at Alaire, "you
brought an accomplice. Just what I need. I suppose it's
the same old story —"
"I didn't start it," Kai and Mac said in unison. One
of the Mac's men laughed discreetly behind his back.
Mac sighed. "Of course, of course. But why can't
you 'not start it' in your own playground, hmm? Don't
you have enough young swordsmen in that court of
yours to keep you busy?"
"We've been through this before," Kai admonished,
shaking a finger reprovingly at the Watch Com-
mander. "They would never kill me, or even dare to
spill a single drop of my royal blood. That takes all the
fun out of it. Here, on the other hand, at places of such
high repute as this inn and others in the neighbor-
hood, I have a more sporting chance of fighting
someone not afraid to kill me. Therefore, the chal-
lenge. Therefore, the fun."
"Therefore, my headache," Mac retorted. "At least
you can take care of yourself. You seem to be unhurt.
And, strangely, not dead drunk. Jet. You drink more
than all of my men! Combined"
Kai laughed, as if he found that terribly funny. "Ha!
But the evening is still so young!"
Mac grimaced. "It's an hour past midnight!"
Kai waggled his head from side to side, mockingly.
"My day is just beginning."
Mac seemed about to reply, but instead he just gave
up, abruptly. "So be it," he said, after a long pause.
"Just do me one small favor?"
"Yes?" Kai said sweetly.
"Don't kill anyone tonight, hmm? There's no more
room in the morgue. All the slabs are full." And with
this parting sally, the Watch Commander turned and
left, the black cloak swirling behind him. His minions
followed him out the door.
Kai jumped down to his feet, his enthusiasm appar-
ently renewed.
"Come on! What are you waiting for? Let's go!" His
infectious grin was back. "There's hours left till dawn!"
"Where?" Alaire wanted to know, though he had a
sinking feeling he already knew the answer.
"The next tavern. Of course!"
Alaire sighed.
The street's population had doubled in the brief
time they were in The Dead Dragon Inn.
Party time in Suinomen, Alaire thought sourly.
The crowds parted for them, most apparently rec-
ognizing the Crown Prince. It isn't just the clothes,
Alaire thought. There was something else about the
way he carried himself, despite his relative small size,
that commanded the attention of everyone around
him. He acted like he owned the street, the buildings,
the town. And, being the Crown Prince, this was prob-
ably not too far from the truth.
But without a doubt, given the way the Watch
Commander had reacted when he had seen Kai, the
Prince was no stranger to this part of town. Those who
made this place their regular haunt probably did know
him. And given his propensity for picking fights, by
now it was very likely that there wasn't a local who
would rise to his challenge, though they also wouldn't
bother to warn a stranger.
Probably he provides a lot of entertainment for
them, given the way the people in The Dead Dragon
were acting. Lovely. The clown Prince. Though right
now he was walking and strutting like a bantam
rooster, eager for another fight, swaggering about with
an air of importance that Alaire found distasteful.
This air seemed to coincide with Kai's increased
consumption of alcohol, he also observed, but he
didn't know what to do about it. Or even if he could do
anything about it.
The next bar, called, ominously, The Hair of the
Dog, turned out to be a discreet drinking estab-
lishment for noblemen looking for cheap thrills, but
still wanting some of the trappings of home to make
them feel comfortable. A man dressed suspiciously
like the palace guards carefully checked their "creden-
tials." After Kai vouched for his companion, they
entered an establishment which bordered on the luxu-
rious. Discrete amenities, like well-cushioned chairs,
elegant crystal glasses instead of the awkward wooden
tankards of the previous inn, and a guard or two,
placed inconspicuously in the shadows, lent it enough
of an air of wealth to satisfy most highborn. Alaire
liked the place, at first.
"Sir Jehan!" Kai shouted, almost as soon as they
were in the door, waving to someone. He grabbed
Alaire's elbow. "Come over here, Alaire, I want you to
meet someone."
He headed straight for a small gathering around one
of the wooden tables. No doubt, the center of attention
was Sir Jehan, but this worthy was not the young
nobleman Alaire had thought Kai would introduce him
to. Jehan was closer to the King's age, in fact. And that
made him oddly suspicious, for Kai had no reason to
greet someone like this as a cup-companion. Why
would he befriend the Prince when nobody else would?
Sir Jehan was a dark, handsome fellow with graying
beard and hair, sitting in a thronelike chair, sur-
rounded by rough-looking men (bodyguards?) and
tavern wenches. Without a doubt, he was holding
court.
"Ah, Kai, my dear boy," Sir Jehan said conde-
scendingly. "I wondered when you would be out and
about tonight." Three or four of the entourage greeted
their entrance, but for the most part the attention
remained affixed to the nobleman.
Without waiting for an invitation, Kai pulled up a
bench and sat at their huge table, motioning for Alaire
to do the same. Immediately, two barmaids appeared,
eager to take his order and his money. Kai ordered two
carafes of vintage red wine and two glasses, one for
himself and one for Alaire.
Wine on ale? Ye gods, what a fool! Alaire thought.
The last time he had gotten drunk — and ill — was
with this same combination. But he'd barely had any
of the ale at supper, and he was too busy dealing with
the fight Kai created at the last stop to have any more.
It will probably be all right — if I'm careful. After sit-
ting down with this group, he had pretty much
resigned himself to drinking a little, for appearances.
At least here I can have the good stuff. Hangovers from
cheap wine are horrible!
Sir Jehan stared at Alaire for a long moment before
returning his own attentions to the bevy of blowsy
beauties he had gathered about him, like ants swarm-
ing a drop of honey. Please don't ask about me, Alaire
prayed, not knowing what he would say if the noble-
man did inquire about him. I'm just a nobody, a
nonentity. Remember that, everybody.
But does the Prince usually keep company with
nobodies? With anybody? Time to play the fool again.
The wine arrived, and before the barmaid had set
the tray down, Alaire managed to jostle her clumsily,
just a little, in an awkward and inexpert attempt to
steal a kiss. It was enough to topple one of the glasses,
and invoke laughter from the table.
Alaire grinned his most stupid grin, and tried to
look as silly as possible. Sir Jehan no longer paid atten-
tion to him, apparently having decided he was no
longer worth paying attention to.
"Oh, don't worry about that," Kai said, righting the
glass. "See? You didn't even break it."
"You aren't going to drink from the carafe again, are
you, my dear child?" Sir Jehan said, over the breast of
a young woman who had managed to drape herself
across his lap. "You looked like someone had run you
through, with all that red wine covering you."
A titter of laughter rippled among those assembled,
but Kai didn't seem to mind. "Of course not. I'm not a
total barbarian, after all." He poured two glasses
expertly, and gave one to Alaire. "Drink up. The
evenings still young."
"Was that a rumor I heard about you picking a fight
over at The Dead Dragon?" Jehan said, obviously bait-
ing him. He held a large wineglass in one hand, and
helped his lap decoration drink hers. "Or did you
really get into trouble so soon?"
A wicked grin passed across Kai's face, before an
audible gulp from the glass smothered it. "Would I do
such a thing?"
"Yes," Jehan replied.
"Well, then. There's your answer."
While Alaire sipped his wine, and Kai guzzled his,
he observed Sir Jehan discreetly. The litter of empty
wineglasses and carafes suggested some heavy imbib-
ing, but he soon realized that they were not all Sir
Jehan's. Those around him were in various stages of
drunkenness, and indeed, Jehan was encouraging this,
pouring wine the moment someone's glass was empty
or only half empty, toasting, laughing, ordering more.
But Jehan wasn't really drinking — perhaps as much
as Alaire was, a sip occasionally. While the others were
going through entire carafes, Sir Jehan nursed a single
glass.
Odd, Alaire thought. He's not really as drunk as the
others. But he's sure acting like he is. Why? What is
Jehan doing here? Spying on Kai, perhaps?
That could be it, but he doubted the man's effi-
ciency, given the circumstances. Jehan seemed more
interested in the dubious charms of the women
around him, and at any rate, he could only spy on Kai
when Kai was with him.
But he already knew about the disturbance at The
Dead Dragon. Were other spies watching them? Did
Jehan have a network of watchers, who brought him
word while he sat at his ease here, like a spider in the
center of a web?
That was an unpleasant, perhaps unjustified, anal-
ogy. Sir Jehan could be keeping an eye on Kai for his
own good.
That had to be it. He's watching the Prince to see
that nothing happens to him while he's out carousing.
Since I doubt anyone could stop him, at least this
keeps him from getting himself into real danger. Kai
definitely needed someone to watch over him, keep
him out of trouble and bail him out if he found it
Alaire felt a great deal of relief at that So Jehan was
not someone he needed to be terribly concerned
about, he decided, since he wasn't betraying his mis-
sion to Kai or anyone else. He only hoped his
performance thus far into the evening was convincing.
Absentmindedly, without meaning to, Alaire fin-
ished his glass, and Kai refilled it instantly. Can't
afford to get drunk tonight. He touched his lips to the
rim and since no one was looking, lowered it without
sipping.
"I bid you all good evening," Sir Jehan said grandly,
rising to his feet. "My little flock and I have other
plans, don't we, pretty ones?" Amid a chorus of gig-
gles, all of the females seated also stood, and for a
moment Alaire thought he was going to invite the
Prince to share his companions.
The other men left the table wordlessly, seeking the
exit, some visibly disappointed at Sir Jehan's high-
handed appropriation of every woman at the table. Sir
Jehan and his "flock" vanished up a flight of stairs, say-
ing no more.
If the Crown Prince felt left out, he didn't show
it. Alaire's opinion of him raised considerably. While
not a prude, Alaire had been more than a little
uncomfortable with Jehan's blatant pawing of the
tavern girls. He might be a drunkard, but Kai would
seem to set higher standards on women than on
wine. A small miracle, given his youth and his lust
for adventure. No, not adventure, Alaire corrected
himself. Misadventure.
Together they sat, alone at the big table, while bar-
maids scurried to refill the carafes, and Kai proceeded
to tell him his life's story. It would have been easier to
understand him if he hadn't lapsed into his native
tongue a time or two, but Alaire caught the gist of
what he was trying to say, anyway.
"You know, Sir Jehan is one of the best men in the
whole country of Suinomen," Kai slurred. "He's been
my friend since I was thirteen, and was the only one
who showed any interest in my future. Why, Sir Jehan,
he gave me my first drink! In this very bar. Four, five
years ago."
And you've been drinking ever since. You really are
a decent person, I'll bet, when you're sober. Did Sir
Jehan turn you into a drunk, or did you do that all by
yourself?
Alaire, trying his best to play his role though he was,
found himself becoming quite annoyed with his
princely friend. That Kai could get them both killed,
particularly if he picked another fight in his worsened
condition, didn't bother him nearly as much as Kai's
deteriorated personality. He had been drunk at the
start of this carouse, true, but now he was becoming
disgusting.
But Kai was rambling on, in that disjointed fashion
of drunks everywhere. "And you, my friend, you must
have been here before. I know you from somewhere,
and we used to be best friends, are best friends. You
saved my life back there, with those sailors, did you
know that..."
Alaire finished off his glass of wine, and Kai, of
course, refilled it. As he sipped this one, he recalled
what Kai just said about Sir Jehan, and this bar. Jehan
got him started drinking. And he encouraged Kai to
drink himself drunk, just now. And the man wasn't a
drunk himself. Very odd, that. Back in Fenrich, he
remembered the drunks were usually the ones who
encouraged heavy drinking, particularly in those who
drank little.
Now Sir Jehan seemed sinister again. For Jehan
didn't fit that pattern; he had hardly drunk enough for
the wine to affect him, but acted as if he was as inebri-
ated as Kai. He might have another motive for helping
Kai become, and remain, a drunk.
There was more to the picture that he wasn't see-
ing. Whatever Jehan's motives were, they couldn't be
good. What is it about that man that rubs me the
wrong way? Meeting him had shed some light,
however dim, on Kai's relationships within Suinomen.
Meanwhile, let's encourage this notion that I'm an
old friend. Likely as not, he won't remember a thing
tomorrow, if he's like the other drunks I knew back at
the village.
"I might have been here, some time back," Alaire
began. "My parents, they liked to travel. In fact, I met
someone who looked an awful lot like you."
"You did? How long ago was this?"
"Oh, I must have been about fifteen. Four years
ago? Anyway, we stayed at this wooden lodge, on a
large lake." Although he was making a wild guess, he
knew there had to be a large lake somewhere, based
on the amount of water he'd seen in the land so far.
And since most buildings consisted of wood, he fig-
ured a "wooden lodge" was a pretty good bet as well.
Kai's eyes widened "Was that you?"
Alaire shrugged. "Might have been," he replied,
distantly.
Kai gestured excitedly in his chair. "Oh, it was! It
must have been! It was you, Alaire, I remember now, I
remember it all, that summer the royal family decided
to have a 'peasant's holiday'! And you were there. My
best friend! We swore that oath of eternal friendship,
but my father didn't approve — I thought he'd forced
your parents to take you away to some awful place like
Althea and I'd never see you again!"
Kai leaned over and hugged Alaire for what seemed
an eternity. The barmaid gave them an odd look.
Alaire rolled his eyes.
Not the impression I meant to convey, Alaire
thought, although this new level of trust promised to
be very useful.
At the next tavern, Kai got down to some serious
drinking.
This place had no sign, no real front door. To find
the tavern, they had left the main street, to a darker,
more shadowy alley, through which Alaire walked
clutching the hilt of his sword.
"Is this really a place we need to go?" Alaire had
whispered, as Kai led him into the darkness. He found
it difficult to envision the tavern that would be in this
end of the district. Twice they stepped over motionless
forms lying across their path, one of whom had lost his
belt and whatever had hung on it, his cloak, and any-
thing that had been in his pockets, which hung inside
out. The other was probably passed out drunk.
Kai seemed more in his element here than at the
previous two places. They entered the establishment
through an entrance practically invisible from the
alley, which was just as well. If you didn't know where
the place was, you probably didn't belong there. The
tavern keeper knew him by name, greeting him simply
as Kai, not "sir," or "your highness." Do they even
know he's a prince? Alaire wondered. But then, they
didn't use titles at the other taverns. And Sir Jehan
certainly knew Kai was the Crown Prince.
It's almost as if he is ashamed of the title, Alaire con-
sidered, as they settled down into a semi-private
booth, this one with blood stains on the wall. Kai
didn't appear to notice. He might have been responsi-
ble for them being there in the first place.
"So, what'll it be this time?" Kai asked enthusiasti-
cally.
Alaire had managed to drink only four glasses of
wine or ale that evening, in spite of the pressure to
drink much, much more. He even managed to act a
little drunk, to blend in with the masses. But his stom-
ach, and his head, were both sending warning signals
to him. If he drank much more, he would get drunk,
or worse, and be completely useless in a fight. Which,
in this area of town, seemed highly likely.
"Oh, whatever you're drinking," Alaire said, and Kai
ordered up three large steins of some foul looking
brew called "dogbolter." Two were for Kai. One was
Alaire's. When he looked down, he saw that twigs were
floating around in it. Heaven only knew what else was
in it.
"Tasty," Alaire said, without trying it. If I dump this
on the floor, he won't even notice. The floor is already
so sticky anyway that another quart of muck won't
matter.
Alaire made ready to anoint the floor with his gift
from Kai when a disturbance at the door distracted
him.
The Watch. Again. Alaire saw the four uniformed
men before Kai did; the boy's powers of observation
had dwindled to next to nothing. They were halfway
across the bar before the Prince noticed them, turned
pale, and ducked behind both of his steins, peering
furtively between them.
"They're not after us," Alaire whispered, not sure if
this was even true.
The four uniformed men turned towards the rear of
the tavern. In the shadows Alaire could make out a
terrified middle-aged man and an equally terrified
older one, sitting at a small table at the very back.
Kai exhaled loudly. "Glad it wasn't us," he said.
"Thought for sure they'd changed their minds and
decided to take me in. Show me a 'lesson.'"
"Different group," Alaire observed. "Different uni-
forms, too. They're all black, like the Watch
Commander's, instead of gray."
"Black uniforms?" Kai asked, and peered around
the booth at the unpleasant scene developing behind
him, apparently seeing the men clearly for the first
time. "No. Not here."
"What?"
The barkeep went over, rattling something in their
native tongue. It looked like he was trying to vouch for
the two sitting at the table, but was having no luck.
Finally, the barkeep handed over several gold coins.
"They were going to take him in along with those
two, for serving them," Kai informed him. "Gold is the
best bribe of all, here."
"Why are they taking those people in?" Alaire
asked, but Kai stared without answering. The uni-
formed men took the two away, roughly shoving them
towards the door. The moment they were gone, Kai
returned his attention to the table, and his brew.
"Magicians," Kai snorted in contempt. "Unlicensed
magicians. Damn fools don't ever learn!"
This is what Naitachal was talking about, Alaire
thought, in sudden fear. Careful, now, don't want to
pry too blatantly here. He noticed Kai fishing one of
the twigs out of his brew. With a silly grin, he used it to
stir his drink. But then again, as drunk as he is right
now, is it going to matter? I'm his long-lost best friend,
after all.
"Those guys weren't the regular Watch, were they?"
he asked.
"Oh, no. They were Swords of the Magicians' Asso-
ciation. Special law-enforcement troops, there." He
took another long swallow from the stein; Alaire
blanched. "Then they ba — brr — ah..."
Kai's eyes rolled up in his head momentarily, as his
head tilted forward. Alaire thought he was going to
bang his head on the table, but he recovered just in
time.
"Ah? What was I saying? Is it dawn yet?"
Alaire had no clue what time it was, though it
couldn't be too far from daybreak. "The Association.
You were telling me all about them."
"Oh, right. The troops. The elite of the enforce-
ment arm of the Magicians' Association."
Alaire strove to look innocent and interested. "Are
they the ones who enforce the laws regarding magic?"
Kai stared at him for a long moment, his head wob-
bling slightly. Should I continue this discussion
tomorrow? Alaire wondered. He looks like he's ready
to pass out. After all he's had to drink, he should have
passed out hours ago.
"Not them. The Association. That's all they do, look
for unlicensed magic going on." Kai blinked owlishly.
"Then the Association sends out the Swords to bring
the poor fools in for punishment. That's what that was
probably all about, there at the table."
Alaire tilted his head to one side, and looked puz-
zled. "Unlicensed magic? How does one go about
getting a license?"
Kai wrinkled his nose. "You don't know?"
Alaire shrugged. "I haven't been here very long."
"Takes a lot of gold. More than that barkeep had."
Kai shrugged. "But without one — too bad."
"Licenses which, I'm assuming, most of your citi-
zens don't have." Alaire continued probing, thinking
that it was a miracle Kai was so coherent.
Kai nodded, and took another pull of his mug.
"That's right. The nobles think they should be the
only ones to have magicians. You can only perform
magic in the Association Hall, with very rare excep-
tions, arranged well in advance. And paid for in
advance."
Sure — but what about people like the two in here?
"And those who don't want to bother with that?" he
continued delicately.
Kai laughed nervously. "The Association sends out
their troops to catch the perpetrators, then fines the
one who paid for the unlicensed magic double what
the licensed version would have cost"
A good incentive to pay for the license. "And
what... what about the magician? The one who actually
did the magic?"
Kai's face lost all expression, and he leaned forward
to whisper, "He goes to the Prison of Souls."
Alaire shivered at the name. "Gods, that sounds
awful."
"Well," said Kai, showing some real, if ghoulish,
interest. "It is. Let me tell you about it."
He did Alaire wished he hadn't.
"They put their bodies in casketlike boxes for a
minimum of one year, and use crystals to capture their
souls. They do everything in a room deep under the
Hall."
Alaire shook his head; this was magic unlike any-
thing he had ever heard of. "I can see the point of
imprisoning them but — crystals? With souls in them?
Why?"
Kai lowered his voice still more. "They use the souls
to help fuel the licensed magic so that they don't have
to expend personal energy for spell-casting. That's the
real punishment, you see."
Alaire fought to maintain a neutral face, but inside,
he was frantic. This is Necromancy!
"Tell me more, Kai."
"It gets worse," he said, with a kind of ghoulish
excitement, like a child telling a ghost story. "For every
year a magician spends in the Prison, his body ages
twenty. So a young man of twenty will come out a year
later as a man of forty — if he is stupid enough to get
caught for a major crime-of-magic or to get caught a
second time, sixty or eighty! I even hear of a mage who
got sentenced to a term of five years. When they let
him out, he staggered into the light. Hardly more'n a
skeleton. Fell dead on the spot in the Association
Hall."
The story horrified Alaire. A completely non-violent
way to mete out the most cruel punishment. That must
be why the people, the King's people, put up with it. It
works no violence on the mage directly, so it must be
perfectly just and equitable.
No, I'm not likely to be working any Bardic Magic
in Suinomen!
"But don't worry. There aren't any magicians
around here." The Prince glanced back at the empty
table. "At least, not anymore."
Kai polished off the two steins and ordered another.
Alaire wondered if he should say something about
Kai's consumption.
No. I doubt that would be useful. He's going to
drink whether or not I try to stop him.
So it proved. After a while, Kai slipped into his own
tongue, and Alaire simply nodded and grunted at
appropriate intervals. Some time later, after Kai had
been babbling on in his own language for a good long
while, Alaire did manage to get him to his feet and
pointed towards the door. When they got outside, it
was already daybreak.
Kai groaned when the early morning sun hit his
face.
Alaire felt a certain amount of pleasure at that. "You
weren't expecting that, were you?" he asked, but got
no reply.
He escorted Kai back to the main street, a curiously
silent place now that the sun was out, save for one
loud drunk singing in the gutter. Soon he found the
carriage, with the driver passed out inside. Dumping
Kai on the seat, he roused the driver and, with ges-
tures, managed to convey the need to return to the
palace.
Slowly, and with considerably less enthusiasm
than when they arrived, the carriage moved for-
ward. Though not hung over, Alaire felt tired. Kai's
little rampage had taken quite a bit out of him.
Maybe, if I could just sleep a little on the way
back . . .
But he couldn't. Tired as he was, sleep wouldn't
come. He couldn't get the awful image of caskets and
crystals out of his mind
"The Prison of Souls," Alaire murmured to Kai's
sleeping form. "Gods, Naitachal, what are we about to
get into here?"
Chapter VI
As Naitachal had expected, the dinner "in their
honor" was a grand affair, with all the correct seating
strategies to turn it into a political event as well. The
Dark Elf sat with the King and other nobles at a high
table, giving him a bird's-eye view of the dining hall.
The King, however, seemed more intent on making a
favorable impression on his subjects than discussing
politics with Naitachal. They exchanged perhaps a
half-dozen words during the entire dinner, after
which King Archenomen excused himself — though
not before promising Naitachal a formal meeting the
next day in his chambers to discuss matters of state.
Which was just fine with Naitachal, given his
exhaustion. Wine poured freely, but he only pre-
tended to indulge, knowing that if he did in his
present state he would likely make a fool of himself
and, in turn, of Althea. No, that would not do. At all.
He was a little put out that they did not seat Alaire
next to him, but to maintain Alaire's false identity, he
said nothing. After all, Alaire was a servant. It won't
kill him. And he might even learn something.
After supper, Naitachal spent what seemed like hours
getting acquainted with the highborn of Suinomen. But
as he became accustomed to some of their nuances of
speech, he realized he was little more than an oddity,
and they were more interested in his race — an elf, and
a Dark Elf at that — than his appointment as
Ambassador of Althea. From what he gathered from
their fragments of conversation, no one really seemed to
want a war, or even know that the King had made
threats.
That the King allowed him to mingle so freely
seemed odd. If these folk intended a fight with Althea
shouldn't they spirit its ambassador off to his private
quarters after supper to better control what he saw
and heard? Instead, they left him to his own devices.
The worst was the surreptitious glances as he walked
past their huddled groups. He soon grew tired of their
impolite stares. Until these people grew used to him
and treated him as something other than a freak, he
preferred the company of Alaire, the King, or no one
at all.
One particular nobleman, a count, or the closest
equivalent to that tide, showed a little more respect
than the others. He was a middle-aged man, wearing a
fine fur jacket, trimmed with silver, which matched his
thick head of gray-white hair. He had also been
indulging generously in the wine at dinner and was
eager to talk. In short, an excellent source of dropped
information.
In spite of his desire to find his bed and sleep for a
day, he entertained this Count Takalo, slyly turning the
conversation around to international relations
between Althea and Suinomen.
"Couldn't be better," the Count brayed, in a fine
baritone voice that rattled all the crystal goblets within
reach. "In fact, I'm hoping to establish free trade
soon."
Naitachal nodded wisely. "I'm sure Althea would
reciprocate. Particularly if the trade involved dieren.
That is, if you were willing to part with some of your
herds."
The Count's expression turned crafty. "I wouldn't
know about that. The plan I like best involves selling
dieren of only one sex. Is that why you're here? To talk
trade?"
Naitachal smiled smoothly. "King Reynard sent me
to discuss several things."
During this conversation, he noticed Alaire talking
to someone who appeared to be of noble birth, given
his elaborate dress. At first this alarmed him, since
Alaire's role put him lower on the social ladder than
this other highborn lad. Then he relaxed, realizing that
if the stranger chose to speak to Alaire, they might
learn something useful. And if Alaire did commit a
social blunder, it shouldn't really matter much; they
were, after all, silly foreigners.
Emphasis on silly for Alaire. Hope he doesn't overdo
the stupid, naive, country-lad pose. If he gets into any
trouble, he's likely to be on his own. But Naitachal
noted, with satisfaction, that the bardling was still
wearing his blade.
Count Takalo apparently noticed the direction Nai-
tachal was looking, and nodded at Alaire and the other
young man. "Would that be your assistant I saw you
with earlier?"
"Yes it would," Naitachal replied. He raised an eye-
brow at the younger man's antics; the boy was
obviously drunk. Very drunk. "Who's that with him?"
The Count shrugged, as if the boy's behavior was of
little importance. "Oh, that's the Crown Prince,
Kainemonen."
The elf raised both his eyebrows at this. "The
Prince?" But he's making a complete fool of himself in
public. Doesn't his father care?
"Ach," the Count said, in obvious embarrassment.
"I'm afraid he drinks a little more than he should. He's
young. But I hear the King was the same way." When
the Count spoke of the royal family, his voice lowered.
"The King, he's afraid the Prince might want the
throne a little early, if you know what I mean."
Naitachal decided to feign naivete. "Well, no, I
don't. Do you mean a revolt?"
"Perhaps." The Count shook his head. "I'm not so
certain of this, but the King seems rather fearful of the
prospect. I can't imagine anyone taking Kai seriously,
but there is always the possibility of someone using
him as a puppet, I suppose."
No doubt "Is the Prince always, well, intoxicated?"
Naitachal asked delicately.
The Count considered this a moment. "Not always.
There are some lucid moments, when the sun's up."
Naitachal sighed, as if contemplating the sins of
youth. "This younger generation. I just don't know. I
wonder how such a lad could inspire enough trust for
a revolution. It doesn't seem likely."
"I must agree," the Count replied. "Yet, the fear still
exists." He seemed uncomfortable, discussing such
delicate matters, and promptly changed the subject
"How long will you be staying here?'
"That much I'm not certain," Naitachal said. "But
perhaps you can recommend some sights while we are
here?"
The conversation continued in a less dangerous
vein, and soon a large, bosomy woman, apparently the
Count's wife, snatched him up. The Count bid him
good night.
Weariness settled over the Dark Elf like a heavy
cloak. He knew he should stay and fish for more infor-
mation here among these men, but he was just too
tired from the journey to make the effort. Also, the
remaining noblemen had begun talking among them-
selves, and didn't seem to be receptive to admitting
any stranger into their pockets of conversation. The
evening had suddenly become boring.
Now I remember why I can't stand Court functions.
Thinking of soft beds and warm fireplaces and a
much-needed rest, Naitachal extracted himself from
the gathering and strode out of the great hall, seeking
his quarters.
But the information he had gathered left him with
plenty of food for ponderings. The Crown Prince.
Strange, Naitachal thought. Very, very strange. As he
puzzled over the exchange with Count Takalo, he
wished Alaire's mother, Queen Grania, were here. She
would have dissected and devoured that group back
there with ease, and they would have divulged far
mare than they intended before they knew what was
going on. Very wise, very crafty, famous for being able
to charm information right out of people, Grania
would have been of far more use here than Naitachal
was.
Being a male and a Dark Elf, I'm at a disadvantage.
Not all of Grania's power was due to charm, though.
Some of it — as Alaire's Bardic ability proved — came
from another source entirely. Did Alaire know his
mother was a powerful mage in her own right before
she married his father? Surprisingly, Naitachal didn't
know the answer to this. She knew whenever her off-
spring were in trouble without casting a single spell,
though she no longer used formal magic. Oh I think
that's where Alaire got his gift, all right, Naitachal
decided.
She often said that the court mages were enough to
take care of any problems magic could cure. Queen
Grania preferred being Reynards right hand "man" to
any kind of magery. Naitachal wished again that he
had her with him.
She could get to the bottom of this mystery in no
time on pure personality alone. Looks like we're both
going to have to do it on intelligence and stealth.
Naitachal returned to their room from memory,
through ornate halls, steep, rock staircases and then
smaller, damper halls, all lit with torches or candles.
The closer he got to his room, the more spread out
were the sources of illumination. Large swaths of
darkness separated the tiny islands of light Few peo-
ple, evidently, were staying in this part of the palace
this evening.
When he arrived at his room, he found the door
slightly ajar. His first thought was that Alaire had
arrived before he had, but Alaire would never have
left the door open, particularly in unfamiliar and
potentially hostile territory. Then, while he puzzled
over this, the Dark Elf sensed a sudden movement of
air behind him as someone moved closer.
He started to turn — but too late. The garrote
slipped expertly over the Dark Elf's neck, then tight-
ened over his windpipe.
Naitachal reached for the rope and stepped back-
wards, gasping for the breath that had so quickly been
shut off; he could not see the attacker, but judged him
to be bigger and stronger than himself. He pushed
harder, trying to force the man against the wall. The
attacker held on, unyielding. His lungs screamed for
air.
He reached up, clawing at the attacker's wrists. The
thought formed unbidden in his mind.
Archahai Necrazach. Sceptre Touch. Touch of. . .
Death...
As he readied himself to reach for the powers he
would need for the death spell, his first, instinctive
defense, he caught himself. Just in time.
I can't use magic in this land! Much less that magic!
Quickly, he groped for a knife he had hidden in an
arm sheathe, partway up his forearm. With one frantic
move he slashed at the hands controlling the garrote.
The pressure on his neck fell away, as Naitachal
whirled, and confronted his attacker, face to face.
The man didn't seem particularly alarmed that Nai-
tachal had freed himself. Through his blurred vision,
which cleared quickly now that he could breathe, the
Dark Elf stared at his attacker, who stood in the shad-
ows, poised for another assault.
Why isn't he running?
Because he thinks he can still kill me. And he's prob-
ably right....
They squared off, weapons raised, circling each
other like cats about to fight. Naitachal realized with
sickening clarity how much he relied on magic in bat-
tles like this, the ones that really mattered, when his
life or that of someone close to him was at stake. Even
Bardic Magic was a combative weapon —
The human, garbed completely in black, wore a
gauzelike wrapping wound tightly around him, giving
him free movement. The Elf saw nothing in his eyes
but cool calculation, no fear or panic, as if he wasn't
worried that the garrote had not worked on his quarry.
And there was something about his stance, a profes-
sional air Naitachal had come to associate with a
certain class of hirelings. An air that said, without a
word being spoken, that murder was not new to this
man.
The man's a professional assassin, Naitachal
thought, with a sinking feeling. Which means he prob-
ably can kill me.
Reflexively, the Dark Elf briefly thought of all the
spells he might be able to use on those eyes, but
couldn't, given the restrictions of Suinomen.
But then, now that the garrote was gone, he was
unarmed, giving the elf a definite advantage.
"Who are you?"
No response. Well, it was worth a try.
The assassin snatched up the elaborate brass
candlestick from a marble shelf set into the wall, extin-
guishing the candle.
"You don't really think that's going to bother me, do
you?" Naitachal said, as darkness fell.
His eyes adjusted quickly, just in time to dodge as
the assassin struck out with the heavy brass candle-
stick.
Clumsy, Naitachal thought, countering the strike
with one of his own. His knife drew blood as it sliced
into the assassins hand, severing tendons.
He heard no yelp or exclamation of pain at the
strike. Again, evidence of intensive training. Instead,
the assassin dropped the candlestick and ran.
Naitachal ran after him. The chase took him to the
end of the hallway, which branched into more halls.
After only a few turns the elf lost him, and gave up the
chase.
Must have disappeared down a secret passage, Nai-
tachal thought glumly as he returned to his room, wary
of anything that might be lurking in the shadows.
There's no way to know. If he vanished through a hid-
den door he must be familiar with the palace layout.
Which could, in turn, implicate the royal family, or
possibly someone loyal to the King.
He didn't like this one hit, and was uncertain what
to do next. If he alerted the palace guards to the
attack, they might be able to find the intruder. How-
ever, there was another option, and that was to do
nothing. What the palace staff did in the next few
hours could be very revealing to their true intentions,
particularly if he pretended this never happened.
Before sheathing the knife he noticed a glint of
blood on its blade. The assassin's.
He regarded this tantalizing bit of evidence like a
starving man would a steak. What a remarkable relic
to leave behind. What a shame I can't take advantage
of it. There was more than enough blood left on the
blade to call the man back or track him down with
magic. They may have calculated this into the plan, to
lure him into the practice of magic, so as to discredit
himself, his King, and his mission. This may, in fact, be
an excuse to launch an attack on Althea!
If I could only.. .
Naitachal was suddenly sympathetic to the magi-
cians in Suinomen; he knew there were a few, at the
very least. What they must endure in order to practice
their craft! Another alarming possibility came to him.
What about Alaire? If they're going to attack me,
wouldn't that make Alaire a prime target? As he made
his way back to his room, he shook the thought out of
his head. Of course not. He's just a silly servant, not
worthy of a moment's attention. Unless the fool of a
child has somehow revealed himself!
The Dark Elf didn't think that Alaire would let his
identity slip, but he worried anyway. Naitachal had no
idea where Alaire and Prince Kainemonen had gone,
or what this city was like at night. If it was anything
like the coastal cities in Althea, he could have found
some pretty rough trade lurking in the taverns. Com-
pany that Alaire, though he was far from sheltered,
might not know how to handle.
Once in the room, the Bard stoked the smoldering
fire to get some heat going. Instead of lying down on
the huge canopy bed, Naitachal decided to sit up and
wait up for Alaire. Despite his efforts to stay awake, he
fell asleep sitting in one of the chairs.
Several hours later, he woke to find Alaire entering
the room. Sunlight poured in through the partially
drawn shades. Though he would have rather slept
horizontally on the bed, the brief nap in the chair had
restored a good deal of his strength.
Alaire tiptoed carefully into the room, his eyes fixed
on the shadow-shrouded bed, holding his boots in one
hand. Naitachal saw his breath fogging in the room,
reminding him that the fire had gone out. He evi-
dently thought Naitachal was in the bed, and hadn't
seen him yet.
"Good gods, look what decided to drag its weary tail
in from the night," Naitachal said softly, but the quiet
words made Alaire jump. Startling the bardling
granted some satisfaction. That his apprentice had
been out all night still perturbed him.
"Naitachal," Alaire said, clearly flustered. "I didn't
see you sitting there."
"Obviously. Care to tell me where you've been?"
It was at times like these that he felt most like a par-
ent, even though the boy was a very mature nineteen,
and quite capable of taking care of himself. But Gods,
it's dawn! where in the seven hells could he have been
all this timer?
Alaire had been in at least one fight. Ale and wine
streaked his rumpled clothing, and dirt smeared his
face. His excited, feral look didn't fit his otherwise
disheveled appearance.
Ah, Naitachal thought, understanding. He's had
what the humans call a "Good Time."
"Are you drunk?" Naitachal asked.
"Oh, no," Alaire said, sitting down on the edge of
the bed "Though I've been hanging out with a lot of
people who were roaring drunk."
Naitachal raised his eyebrows. "Including the
Crown Prince of this kingdom. Kainemonen, was it?"
"The very same," Alaire said. "So. What have you
found out so far?"
The Bard shrugged. "Very little. The perception of
some of the nobles is that young Kainemonen is after
the Crown." He wanted to save the best for last, so as
not to taint Alaire's memory of his own evening. If I
told him what happened to me, he might remember all
sorts of people following him that weren't there.
Alaire proceeded to describe Kainemonen in the
most lurid detail. Appalled, Naitachal could not imag-
ine what the King thought he was doing, letting the
boy run riot like that. Fighting, drinking — though Kai
was young and bright, Alaire observed sadly that Kai
had the most unsatiable thirst for ale he had ever seen
in a person. "He drank enough to put you, me, and my
entire family under the table."
"Even your brother Craig?" Naitachal asked, fasci-
nated in spite of himself
Alaire sighed. "He makes Craig look sober. I drank
a little, but did my best to stay unintoxicated. It was a
lot more difficult than I thought, but before the
evening was over he believed me to be a long-lost
friend from some time ago. Could this help us?"
Well, that was a promising development. "If he
remembers tomorrow. At this point, he may not even
remember meeting you last night"
Alaire shook his head sadly. "This is true. But there
is something else. Something far more . . .
threatening."
Naitachal didn't like the tone Alaire had suddenly
taken. Threatening? Could assassins have come after
Alaire as well?
He nodded, as the bardling paused. "Yes, Alaire.
Please continue."
Alaire stared at the wall for a moment, as if he was
thinking of something too horrible to describe, or even
react to. Rubbing his temples, looking like he was
summoning the nerve to discuss what he'd learned,
Alaire finally continued.
"Kai and I were in a tavern. The local constables
came in and arrested two men. Kai told me right away
they were unlicensed magicians, and that the Swords of
the Magicians' Association had caught up with them."
Naitachal calmly held up a hand. "The Swords of
the what?"
"The organization responsible for enforcing the
magic laws. They wear black and operate in groups
of about six, with a leader, and seem to presume
anyone they're arresting is guilty without trial. But
that's not what's so scary about this place. When I
asked Kai to elaborate on what was going to
happen to those men, he told me about the Prison
of Souls."
At once, Naitachal felt a darkening of his spirit, as if
someone had drawn the curtains, snuffing out the sun,
and a chill crept over him that made him shiver in a
way that had little to do with the cold air of the bed-
room. But the sun continued to shine, warming his
feet on the carpeted floor. There was more to the
name than the suggestive language. He imagined the
darkness this prison contained and saw the tortured
souls stored there. Yes, stored. Was this what Father
encountered, that time he traveled afar? Had he trav-
eled to Rozinki?
The cold chill Naitachal felt seemed to have
touched Alaire with its spectral fingers, for the
bardling shivered as well. "It's not like any normal
prison, like we have at home. Its more like a, well,
mausoleum. They store the bodies in caskets, but
somehow they extract the souls and keep them sepa-
rate, storing them in crystals somewhere deep
beneath the Association Hall."
"Aie," Naitachal said in dismay, shaking his head.
"Even my people have yet to come up with something
so ... malevolent. Or cruel!"
"Oh, but that's not the half of it." Alaire was on his
feet now, making broad, animated gestures in the air,
as if by movement he could drive away the chill of fear.
"Not nearly. For every year they imprison someone,
his body, stored away elsewhere, ages twenty!"
"Which means — let me see if I have this right —"
"Which means," Alaire interrupted, "If they impris-
oned me in this thing for two years, I would be sixty
years old when they released me. Think of it! And if
one was stupid enough —"
"Or desperate enough," Naitachal interrupted back.
Good Gods, what an evil device! But consider the
source.
"This came from the mouth of a young drunk, who
was, by your accounts, intoxicated. Are you certain he
wasn't exaggerating? This is almost too horrible to
believe."
Alaire paused, considering. "I don't think so. At
least not this. The arrest there at that tavern seemed
to sober him instantly. For a moment or two he was
lucid enough to convince most people he hadn't
been drinking. This place scared him as he
described it. I could see it clearly in his face. And it
scared me."
Though not completely convinced, Naitachal was
almost ready to accept the story at face value. I must
confirm this with someone else. But for the time being,
I'll assume this to be true. Alaire is shaking, talking
about it.
"I think someone wanted me to use magic
tonight," Naitachal said, and told Alaire about the
assassin. "I came within a breath of summoning a
rather nasty dose of Sceptre Touch to do away with
him."
"Did you stop yourself in time?" Alaire asked, vis-
ibly shaken.
"Just barely. As tired as I was, I was operating on
reflexes only. I wonder if this assassin realized how
close to dying he really was. He wasn't trying to kill
me, I don't think. Just trying to get me desperate
enough to fling a spell at him."
Naitachal decided to try and make light of the situ-
ation. There was no point in frightening the youngster
any further. "And, if I had used magic, it would not
have been the end of the world. I am, after all, a Dark
Elf. Who knows, I might be able to make friends in a
place like that They might have decided I made a bet-
ter teacher than a body in their prison."
Alaire made a sour face.
Naitachal forced a laugh. "And with my elven con-
stitution, a year or more wouldn't make much
difference, nor would the aging effect."
Alaire frowned, and pointed out the obvious. "But
in that year, the war between our two kingdoms might
come to pass, with you out of the way."
Naitachal waved the comment away. "Never mind
that. We both managed to get through this night with-
out mishap, and now we know the dangers. You must
promise me that you will not use magic of any kind
while you are here, unless it is to save your life, or
someone else's."
"You don't need a promise from me. I'm not about
to use the Gift in this place!"
Naitachal nodded, satisfied. "Is there anything else
I should know?"
Alaire's expression turned puzzled. "Well, this Sir
Jehan. I met him in one of the taverns. Strange sort
of fellow. He's an older man, middle aged, one of
the nobles, and he seems to be the land of
profligate someone like Kai would turn into after a
few years. Not sure what his rank is. Kai is very
fond of him, and I'm not sure why. It might be
because he is the only noble from the court who
will have anything to do with him. But there's
something suspicious about him; I got the feeling
that everything he does is a calculated pose."
Interesting. "You couldn't be a little more specific?'
Alaire shook his head. "Not right now, no. Just a
feeling, a hunch. He's manipulating Kai somehow.
And also there's this Captain of the Guard, another
friend. I didn't see him out there last night, but from
the way Kai spoke of him, he's another 'friend' in the
Suinomen Court."
Very interesting. "We must look into this. It could
be important, or it could be nothing. Meanwhile, it
looks like Kai is likely to be our best source of infor-
mation."
"I have to agree," Alaire replied. "What I need to
find out is how I stand with him when he's not drink-
ing. Could be a world of difference there."
Naitachal regarded the sun, peeking obtrusively
through the window, like an unwanted guest. "Looks
like my day is beginning. You, my young friend, had
better get some sleep. Which, I presume, is what Kai
is doing now."
Alaire looked pained — or perhaps, merely embar-
rassed. "Oh, yes. Passed out in the carriage on the way
over here. I delivered him to the servants, who
seemed to be expecting him to be in that condition,
and knew exactly what to do with him."
Naitachal motioned Alaire into his bed, and the
young man barely took the time to strip off his boots
and outer garments before tumbling in. On the whole,
the Bard was proud of his apprentice. He was making
wise judgments, thinking on his feet, and had a good
grasp of the dangers of me situation. Now Naitachal's
only concern was that he embroil himself too deeply,
take too many risks. He was a clever young man — but
those who opposed them were likely to be just as
clever.
Naitachal summoned the energy to rise to his
feet, and started toward a washbasin filled with
water. As he splashed water on his face, Alaire's
muffled snores came out of the heap of bed cover-
ings behind him.
Chapter VII
As Naitachal emerged from his bed chamber, he
sensed the castle awakening around him. Even
though he had slept very little he didn't feel as tired
as a human would have under the same circum-
stances. In fact, he had only begun sleeping vaguely
human hours in the last half century of his life, a
sure sign of elven middle age. These humans rose
slowly in comparison with elvenkind; he heard
them, making muffled noises from the rooms and
down the hallways, grumbling like bears waking
from a winter-long hibernation. Given how much
sleep they needed, and how short their lives were,
he wondered how they were ever able to build a
civilization.
In the dimmed hallway he stopped a young servant
girl to ask where he could find the head servant,
Paavo, who apparently had been the only repre-
sentative Archenomen assigned to them. She
muttered something back in the native language and
held her hands up in the universal gesture of I don't
understand you and continued extinguishing the can-
dles in the hallway. Interestingly, she did not seem to
notice the missing candlestick that had stood beside
Naitachal's door.
The Dark Elf regarded the stony halls with equal
parts of distaste and frustration. Not even a civilian
guard to watch these halls, he thought, mildly
annoyed. Althea afforded the highest degree of
protection to diplomatic guests.
This could be carelessness, or it could be something
else altogether. I was, after all, attacked in this very
hall last night. Time to see the King, he thought, and
tried to remember if King Archenomen had left direc-
tions for their meeting. At dinner the King had
seemed determined to watch the behavior of his sub-
jects, rather than engage in any kind of conversation
with a visiting diplomat.
It would be easy right now to dip into deep pools of
paranoia and find a knife-wielding assassin, specially
groomed by the Royal Archenomen family, in every
shadow he passed. But a small part of him told him
this would be assuming way too much. Easy, now. It's
still too early to say who's responsible. There could be
a valid reason why I have no guards — perhaps they
honestly feel I'm in no danger. There did seem to be a
lack of concern, one way or the other, this serene
morning.
Time for answers. The longer they lived in the shad-
ows, the greater chance the forces of darkness had of
gaining some advantage against them. And without
the advantage of his magical tools, the sooner he and
his apprentice learned the truth, the better. At the
moment, knowledge, his diplomatic skill and his
sword were the only weapons available to him.
Naitachal made his way to the main hallway, keep-
ing in mind the route back to his room should he
suddenly need refuge. Here servants were more
numerous, and a group of them were picking up after
what looked like a late night party. Paavo was among
them, issuing orders, supervising the cleanup, but
doing very little himself.
From across the hall, Naitachal tried to get the ser-
vant's attention, but Paavo appeared to be ignoring
him. In fact, the man quickly turned his back on the
Bard He's pretending he doesn't see me, the Dark Elf
realized, and this small insight angered him far more
than it should have.
He decided to press the issue, and walked to within
a foot of the servant. Standing behind Paavo, Nai-
tachal spoke again. "Perhaps you can help me," he
said, loud enough for another servant, further away, to
hear. Two other servants turned and gawked at Nai-
tachals black countenance. Paavo did nothing.
No you don't my friend. "Excuse me," Naitachal
said, stepping around the man, and standing right
beside him. Patience now. Perhaps the man is hard of
hearing, he reasoned, though the servant had shown
no sign of deafness the day before.
Paavo, slowly, reluctantly, turned and faced Nai-
tachal. "Oh, Ambassador. Forgive me, I didn't see you
enter the hall."
Naitachal gave him a sharp look, and Paavo winced.
"I seek an audience with the King. To whom may I
speak to arrange this?"
"I am only a servant," Paavo said, apologetically. "I
doubt that I would be very effective in arranging this."
You didn't have these problems yesterday, when
you took us directly to the King. The second letter, the
one from King Reynard to Archenomen, remained in
his breast pocket It would be more than enough of a
reason to justify an audience-on-demand, but he had
already decided to hand deliver the letter to the King,
per instructions. It may . . . disappear, otherwise, he
mused.
The elf waited a moment, giving Paavo a chance to
continue, to answer the second half of his question.
Paavo offered a blank but polite smile, lacking in com-
prehension, as if Naitachal had addressed him in a
language he didn't understand.
Naitachal tried again. "Well then. Could you direct
me to someone, perhaps on the Kings staff, who could
arrange what you cannot?"
Paavo seemed distressed, as he struggled to answer
the question. Or—not answer the question. "That is a
good question, Ambassador. Let's see, who is not on
vacation this month. ..." The servant scratched his
chin and looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps it would save you the trouble by taking me
directly to the King? Yesterday, this didn't seem to be
a problem," Naitachal replied pointedly.
At this suggestion, Paavo adamantly shook his head.
"I am simply not of a high enough rank, you see. If I
could..."
Indeed. Well, there is no point in forcing the issue.
Or reminding him that yesterday his rank was high
enough for him to advise the King. He'll only make
some other excuse — or tell me that the person I saw
was his twin brother.... "Then please tell me, who is
of a high enough rank," Naitachal said, his patience
slipping.
"This may take some time," Paavo replied. "Have
you broken your fast yet this morning?"
Naitachal stared at him, strongly tempted to stran-
gle the man. What in the seven hells is going on here?
What has changed between last night and tonight?
And why is this fool blocking my access to the King?
"No. I. Have. Not. Eaten," Naitachal said, slowly
and deliberately pronouncing each word. "I spoke
with the King last night, and although dinner was not
the appropriate time or place to discuss matters of our
two kingdoms, he did indicate that he wanted to meet
with me today. Could we please arrange this? Today,
please."
"Did you make an appointment?" Paavo asked
meekly.
Naitachal paused, wondering if he should lie. "No.
None seemed necessary."
Paavo frowned. "Perhaps if you could go to the
great hall, we can arrange a meal for you, and I will do
what I can to arrange your meeting. I recall that the
King designated a member of his staff as your liaison."
Then why didn't you tell me that in the first place?
he seethed, but kept the biting words to himself. And
kept from biting Paavo.
"Very well," Naitachal said, and before turning
towards the dining hall, added, with heavy irony,
"Thank you, land sir, for all your — help."
As he walked away, he cursed himself for forget-
ting to ask him who exactly this someone was, and
what his position was on the staff. But on the other
hand, was he really in a mood to deal with whatever
sidestepping dialog Paavo would use to avoid
answering him directly? With time, and with a great
deal of luck, I might even meet this person before
spring.
He found the great hall empty, but a young maid-
servant appeared immediately, showed him to a table,
and vanished. Between the long rows of tables he
noted her passage through two huge swinging doors
leading to the kitchen. Two other servants, cooks by
the look of their aprons, stared over the top of the
doors and conferred heatedly among themselves.
I sense a conspiracy, Naitachal thought A maid-
servant appeared with a plate of food, a pitcher of ale,
and a basket of bread, all of which she balanced pre-
cariously on a wicker tray that had seen better days.
There is absolutely nobody else here, or signs that any-
one else has eaten here this morning, and they had
food prepared in advance. They could not have con-
jured a more effective stalling tactic. The maidservant
deposited the food before him and vanished into the
kitchen. He wondered when the rest of the castle had
breakfast, then realized that very few of the evening's
guests had stayed overnight, or if they had they had
been absolutely quiet and invisible during his trek
down from his room. Most likely, meals went directly
to the rooms of the palaces' permanent occupants.
That, or the others had known he would be here and
had chosen to avoid him.
Naitachal regarded the food with annoyance. The
bread was cold and hard, and the wooden implements
would not penetrate the dense crust, so he resorted to
gripping the loaf and slamming it impolitely against
the edge of the wobbly table. This action, which he
had to repeat, nearly tipped the table and its contents
over, which would have been no great loss. The pheas-
ant, or small chicken, or game bird, he couldn't tell
which, was cold, its juices congealed in a greasy pud-
dle on the wooden trough. Fearing intentional, or
even accidental, food poisoning, he declared the bird-
thing uneatable, and filled his copious time gnawing
on the bread, bread which more closely resembled a
brick than a loaf.
When he looked up, he saw that he had quite an
audience himself. The cooks, the maidservants and a
half dozen others, peered over the door, exchanging
amused looks, with even a giggle or two for guaran-
teed embarrassment.
This could take forever, he thought, ignoring the
onlookers as he chewed on the barely digestible bread,
and ventured to conclude that this might have been
the intention, since every exchange so far had delayed
his meeting with King Archenomen. He imagined the
King, this very moment hurriedly boarding the royal
carriage for an impromptu picnic in the forest,
arranged for the sole purpose of avoiding him. They've
had more than enough time to plan this, he thought
darkly. Gaming an audience might be more difficult
than I first thought.
He glanced back towards the entrance to the hall-
way and saw Paavo conversing with a short, squat
fellow partially hidden from view. They seemed to be
arguing about something, casting distressed looks in
his direction. Apparently the topic of heated discus-
sion was Naitachal.
Naitachal was about to leave the sumptuous feast to
go meet the new fellow himself, when Paavo's com-
panion began walking, without much apparent
enthusiasm, towards his table. Finally, someone to take
me to the King. I hope.
He came directly to Naitachal's table, his posture
becoming more self-important as he neared. And to
Naitachal's eyes, his costume hardly warranted such
puffed-up pride, for he looked as if he wore the spare
clothing of six or seven different folk. He wore a
broad, black hat with a silver satin scarf draped over it,
and a baldric of blue velvet, which was tucked into a
belt of gold braid. The tunic was a dull orange, with
large, billowing sleeves, and had a skirt that termi-
nated at his knees, over hose of green. Black boots
thumped against the bare wooden floor of the hall, the
noise ceasing suddenly as he stopped to stand regard-
ing the Ambassador as if he found himself confronted
by a freak of nature.
"Please, don't stand," the man said, although Nai-
tachal had no intentions of getting to his feet. "I am
Johan Pikhalas, assigned to you by the King to deal
with your needs." He smiled greasily, reminding the
elf of the uneaten bird in front of him. He was
younger than the elf had expected, perhaps in his
forties. Even wearing the broad hat, it was very
clear that Johan was losing his hair. He had the
appearance and attitude of someone assigned an
important, but unwanted and unpleasant task.
"Please, sit," Naitachal said, gesturing at an empty
chair opposite him. And have some dead bird with me.
But Pikhalas seemed to prefer the psychological
advantage of standing. He shook his head politely. "I
understand you seek an audience with the King."
"I do," Naitachal said. "I spoke with him last night
at supper, and he indicated he would be happy to
speak with me today."
Pikhalas seemed to be choosing his words carefully.
"I see. Paavo told me that you had arrived only today.
What subject, may I inquire, did you wish to discuss
with King Archenomen?"
"I am the Envoy from Althea," Naitachal said,
slowly, and keeping a rein on his temper, "and this is
concerning a rather delicate matter, which I am under
orders to discuss with him directly. Forgive me if this
intrudes on some custom of your land that I am unfa-
miliar with. I understand the need to protect your
ruler, but your court accepted my credentials last
night, and an envoy and ambassador has certain privi-
leges as well as duties."
Naitachal reached for the letter, but Pikhalas raised
a hand in protest.
"That will not be necessary. Your credentials are not
in question. But the King is a very busy man, and you
have arrived at a rather awkward time. You see, it is
late harvest, and the King has been receiving counts
from all over the kingdom for the past week. Internal
matters. Taxation. We keep a rather tight rein on our
various Houses. The accounting of their properties
requires his undivided attention."
The Dark Elf was not going to buy into this. Har-
vest? Even a late one, in the winter? Agriculture may
be more critical, this far north, but why should the
King play a personal role in inventorying crops?
Pikhalas might know of the attack on him last night, or
might have even arranged it. Or might not. Don't
jump to conclusions.
Still, it was time to take off the gloves. "Let me cut
straight to the matter, here. Are you telling me in a
roundabout way that the King is refusing to receive an
Ambassador of Althea?"
Pikhalas flinched at the accusation, but Naitachal
let the question stand without apology. "Certainly not,
Ambassador. The King will be willing to speak with
you, but not today. And since you seem unwilling to
discuss your business with me, it would seem we are at
an impasse."
"Perhaps," Naitachal said evenly. "What I came to
discuss is rather important, and involves the future
relations of our two kingdoms. I am a patient being,
willing to adapt to whatever schedule the King
requires of me. But I have traveled quite a distance to
be here. In Althea, King Reynard would have wasted
no time to accommodate a representative of your land.
While I do see the importance of keeping accurate
books, we usually assign such a task to servants and
underlings."
He paused, waiting to see Pikhalas' reaction. His
expression was as blank and unreadable as a death
mask. Naitachal continued. "May I respectfully ask
when the King's schedule might allow my vital meet-
ing with him?"
Pikhalas was quiet for a long time, and finally his
expression changed as the mask dropped. Now he
glared at Naitachal with unconcealed contempt.
When he spoke, his voice held a world of disdain. "We
have an expression in Suinomen, which would seem
appropriate now. Loosely translated to your barbaric
tongue, it says, 'Guests should remember that they are
guests.' If you are a patient man, Ambassador, show us
by your actions, and not your empty words. I will dis-
cuss this with the King. Tomorrow I might be able to
arrange something, but I promise nothing. If this is in-
sufficient to your rather trying demands, I suggest that
you take to the road, and return to that home from
which you came."
Pikhalas turned brusquely, and tossed a final saluta-
tion over his shoulder, as Naitachal stared at him.
"Good day, Ambassador."
He stamped off to whatever "important business"
Paavo had interrupted, his stiff gait and posture telling
the world how annoyed he was at having to deal with
the Dark Elf.
Naitachal gazed after him, suppressing the urge to
work the tiny magic needed to make him trip and fall
on his nose.
When he had left, the boot thumping fading into
the distance, Naitachal stood. Summoning as much
serenity as he could, which wasn't much but enough to
mask his own hot feelings, he left the dining hall with a
little more composure and a lot less noise than Pikha-
las.
If I'm cautious, perhaps I can do a bit of investiga-
tive work in places they would rather not see me,
before they declare such sites off limits. It seems to be
all I can do.
Demon-dogs! Even Alaire is accomplishing more
than I!
Chapter VIII
Alaire set out to find Prince Kainemonen, pausing to
change into something simple but clean. Something
black, that wouldn't blind him or give him a head-
ache. I doubt he'll be feeling his very best today. The
clothes he chose were more appropriate for night-
crawling, and he could only pray they wouldn't be
giving Kai any ideas about another round of tavern-
hopping. An upper servant or lesser noble might wear
the black hose, tunic and small cape, in another land.
His alertness had slipped once or twice the previous
evening, when he was out with Kai, but after hearing
about Naitachal's visitor his senses were keyed to a
high pitch. And although it might seem logical to sus-
pect the Crown Prince — who, after all, had dragged
Naitachal's companion off, leaving him alone — in his
gut he knew that Kai wasn't responsible for the attack,
or even knew anything about it
There simply wasn't a devious bone in Kai's body.
Foolish, perhaps, but not devious.
He puzzled over how much to tell Kai about his
own life. Most of his background was secret in Sumo-
men and Althea, for benefit of his disguise. If I'm
going to get through to him I've probably got to level
with him completely — well, almost. I'll have to do it
without mentioning my Bardic Gift. To let him know
I'm as well-born as he is as well may open some doors.
Or alienate him completely.
It was a chance he had to take. Satisfied he had
struck the proper balance in his attire, so he wouldn't
look like a degraded peon or a well-appointed noble,
the land Kai appeared to dislike the most, he began
looking randomly through the halls for a servant to
take him to Kai.
In retrospect, he decided it was a good idea after all
not to mention the tavern fight to Naitachal, although
the elf must certainly have seen the signs all over him.
And that's all it was, at The Dead Dragon Inn. A sim-
ple fight, in a rough part of town. It had nothing to do
with the attempt on Naitachal's life. So, no need to tell
him anything about it. If he thought I was going to be
walking into trouble, he wouldn't be suggesting an alli-
ance with Kai.
While Naitachal saw that ingratiating himself with
the lad would provide practical information for their
mission, Alaire wanted it to be more than that. Kai
needs a real friend here. One day the Watch might not
come in time to break up whatever fight he's in. If
nothing else, he needs people along to save whoever
he's fighting! One day he may kill someone, quite by
accident —
Alaire frowned as something else occurred to him.
What if that's what someone wants?
It was easy to see a conspiracy behind every one of
the closed doors he passed, in this early stage of the
game. The reality of it was he was no closer to the real
conspiracy than he was last night — unless Sir Jehan
was at the middle of it.
He found Paavo dusting shelves in one of the grand
hallways. When he turned and saw Alaire, his distaste
was evident.
"You," he said softly. "Is there somewhere else you
could be right now?"
Alaire bristled at the attitude, but restrained
himself. They should treat me like this. I am a foolish
assistant, nothing more. A hanger-on. "Why, yes, as a
matter of fact. Could you show me Prince
Kainemonen's chambers?"
The elder servant's eyebrows lifted ever so subtly.
"Why would anyone want to see him? Particularly at
this hour. It's daylight, after all."
Alaire thought he did a credible job of looking stu-
pid. "Why? I wanted to thank him, in person, for
showing me such an entertaining evening. Is he not
receiving today?"
"That is not the point," Paavo sniffed. "He's always
receiving, but nobody wants to see him." He sighed,
apparently resigned to the task. "Come this way. If you
want to waste your time with that drunken child, you
are more than welcome. At least you'll be out of my
way."
An odd way to talk about his Crown Prince. As if he
didn't matter. As if— he never will take the throne....
While Paavo led him down another hallway, this
one painted on both sides with primitive woodland
scenes, Alaire wondered why even a mere servant in
this castle would treat the Prince with such contempt
— even if he was a drunk. Alaire had known a few ser-
vants back at home who had such familiarity with the
royal family, but they were never as presumptuous as
this man.
Take notes. File away for later. We configure Paavo
out some other time.
He'd expected a more regal setting for the Prince,
but the door they stopped at was no more suggestive
of royalty than his own front door in Fenrich.
Paavo waved at the door with an air of one who has
done more than his duty. "You may let yourself in. I
have other, more important things to do today."
With that Paavo turned and walked swiftly away,
leaving behind a palpable cloud of petulance.
Shrugging, Alaire opened the door, and strode into
a darkened room unannounced. The room had no
windows, or wind hole, and reeked of (what else) stale
wine and ale. It was now high noon, and Kai had evi-
dently decided to sleep in, under cover of artificial
darkness.
"Kai?" Alaire ventured, as his eyes adjusted to the
dimness. "Its Alaire. Are you awake?"
Silly question, he thought, closing the door behind
him. He did this reluctantly, because there was no
other source of light. But he needed privacy to discuss
the things he wanted to, and an open door would only
attract idle ears, possibly Paavo's. The room, he discov-
ered, had windows after all, but something solid and
black was covering them. Thin lines of light made an
outline, giving him enough light to avoid bumping into
the larger pieces of furniture.
He became aware of a large canopied bed shoved
into a corner of the room at an odd angle. Heavy vel-
vet curtains cut off his view. Presumably, it was even
darker in the bed than in the rest of the room.
From the bed he heard a muffled grunt, then a
more articulated "unngh" as somebody stirred inside.
Alaire stood uncertainly in the middle of the room,
wondering if he would even be visible, wearing his
black outfit. Then it occurred to him that Kai might
not be alone. After a moment, though, he dismissed
the idea, remembering the unconscious condition
he'd left Kai in.
There was a table against the wall, with something
on it that might be a lantern. When Alaire felt his way
over there, he discovered that it was a lantern, with
the shutters pulled; one that was still burning dimly.
He turned it up. It didn't help much, but now he
could see something more than mere outlines.
The bed-curtains quivered slightly as someone
pushed them aside a crack, revealing half a face and a
bleary, bloodshot eye.
"Unnnngh. Alaire. What are you doing here at this
ungodly hour?"
Alaire turned with the lantern in his hand Kai
winced away from the light. "This ungodly hour hap-
pens to be noon," he pointed out. "Do you plan on
sleeping the day away?"
The curtains shut, but Kai kept moving around,
from the sounds within. "That's precisely what I had in
mind."
Alaire ignored him, and began searching the area
around the windows for a means to open them.
The curtains opened again. Kai had thrown on a
pair of breeches, from a pile of clothing strewn over
the bed. No one else seemed to be with him. Barefoot,
shirtless, Kai dangled his legs over the side of the high
bed. He muttered something inarticulate, rubbing his
forehead.
"Might I suggest having breakfast with me today?"
Alaire offered. His own stomach was rolling over with
hunger. He guessed, from the boy's wan appearance,
that Kai's stomach was rolling over for completely dif-
ferent reasons.
"Oh, gods, no," Kai replied fervently, sticking his
tongue out. "What's breakfast anyway? I don't eat
breakfast."
"Then maybe I could light another lantern, or a
candle. Or open a window."
"Leave the windows shut please," Kai said firmly.
"If you must have light, you could blow some life into
that stove and light a candle. A single candle."
The tiled stove was much like the one in Alaire's
room, except it had a bellows built into one side. It was
a little chilly here, but not as much as his own room
had been when he awakened. He suspected servants
came into Kai's rooms periodically to keep the fire
going. Certainly Kai would never have noticed
Soon Alaire had a roaring fire going again, and
stoked it with wood from a log-holder tiled to match
the stove.
By the time he had carefully lit a candle, Kai was
up, rummaging through the room. The place was a
shambles. Discarded clothing covered the floor,
except for a pie-shaped area where the door opened.
Kai was poking through the debris as if salvaging
usable items from a burned house.
"What are you looking for?" Alaire asked.
"What do you think?" Kai said irritably. "Got to get
the day going somehow."
The reply left Alaire completely baffled until Kai
extracted a wine flask from a heap of clothing.
Oh no, not again, Alaire thought. That's the last
thing he needs.
But fortunately, the flask was the one Kai had car-
ried with him the night before, and was quite empty.
Embarrassed, Alaire watched as the boy shook the
flask out, as if he were perishing of thirst. Despite his
best efforts, not so much as a drop trickled out
Despondent, Kai dropped the flask to the floor and
stood there, staring at nothing. He looked ready to cry.
Alaire tried to rally him. "Looks like it's empty," he
said cheerfully. "Come on, Kai, do you really need a
drink this early?"
Kai ignored him, and began to search frantically
through the mess. "Damned servants. Paavo tells
them to take my private stock whenever I come in
late." His face lit up. "But I have a contingency supply!
That is, unless those twice-damned servants found it!"
He opened a wardrobe next to the bed, and ran his
hand up and over, along the inside. "Ah! There it is!"
Kai turned around, holding a wineskin larger than
the flask he had carried the previous night. The
leather pouch quivered with fullness. Alaire looked
away.
"You don't approve, do you?" Kai said. Alaire
thought he heard genuine concern in the boys voice,
but when he turned back, Kai was drinking deeply
from the skin.
Well, why not? Maybe it'll have an effect. "In a way,
yes. Do you ever stop drinking?"
"Only when I run out," Kai said, a note of defiance
in his voice. "Why shouldn't I?"
Alaire considered this. How to reason with a
drunk? He'd never done so successfully. If I don't
try...
He remembered Kai mentioning that Sir Jehan
gave him his first drink, and that the man had encour-
aged his consumption the evening before. But Sir
Jehan was in no way responsible for Kai's overall con-
dition; that was Kai's doing, and no one else's.
Why do some people drink more than others? How
can one person have one drink and put it down, while
the man next to him orders another, and again
another? He never had really thought about it.
Try the obvious. "Well, for one thing, it will destroy
your body, and your mind. Not necessarily in that
order."
Kai offered a feeble shrug. "Does that really mat-
ter? I'm a drunk. Everybody says so. Nothing I can do
about that." He glared at Alaire, again with that hint of
defiance. "I could stop whenever I wanted to. But I
just don't want to, is all!" He paused to take another
swig. "And it doesn't matter if I'm a falling down
drunk. My father hates me and would rather see me
dead than on the throne!"
Ah. Here we go. The opening I was looking for.
He cleared his throat delicately. "Have you ever
really wondered why I'm here, and how I was able to
meet you, the Crown Prince, so many years ago?
Granted, it was a 'peasant's holiday,' but you know, not
just anyone could get close to the King's son."
Kai was looking at him strangely, and sat down
cross-legged, in a sort of nest of clothing on the floor.
"You know, you're right. You couldn't have got that
close to us, unless there was another reason behind
that so-called 'holiday.' Huh. You're here now on some
sort of diplomatic mission from Althea, right?"
Alaire nodded. "Exactly. The Dark Elf is the
Ambassador sent by King Reynard"
Kai seemed to find this amusing. "Right, the elf.
Caused quite a stir, in our little court. Heard a little bit
about it before supper began last night. Is your father
a diplomat, perhaps?"
Alaire took a deep breath, and told the truth. "I am
the son of King Reynard, ruler of Althea."
Prince Kainemonen sucked in his breath suddenly,
a short exclamation that conveyed the proper surprise.
"Good gods, are you the Prince?"
That got his attention. But now that I have his
ear.. .
He grinned, shyly. "A prince, actually. One of a
horde. Father sent me here to have a look at diplo-
macy firsthand. How do you really know what your
father is thinking? I doubt he really hates you at all. I
used to think the same thing about my father. I was so
far down the line of succession, I didn't think I was
really worth much to him. But I found out differently,
a while back."
Kai stared. "Down the line? You aren't the Crown
Prince of Althea?"
Alaire laughed. "Oh, no. That would be Derek,
my oldest brother, the firstborn. I get to choose
what I'm going to do with the rest of my life!"
"I see," Kai nodded. "In a way, I'm glad. You cer-
tainly didn't act like a prince."
Alaire opened his mouth to comment, something
like, and you do? but thought better of it. Instead, he
continued with the family tree.
"I'll take that as a compliment. My identity is a
secret, so I guess my acting must be pretty good!" He
grinned, and Kai managed a feeble smile in return.
"I'm the youngest of eight brothers. The others had
their destinies planned for them. Grant, the next born,
is a natural fighter and is in training to become a War
Lord. Trevor, number three, will become Kingdom
Seneschal, given his high intelligence and wit.
Contemplative Phyllip was our family's 'gift' to the
priesthood and Church. When Father suggested
Roland start studying to become the Court Researcher
and Librarian he nearly had a fit, he was so pleased —"
Kai stared at him, apparently fascinated that King
Reynard had taken such pains to suit his sons' desti-
nies to their talents.
Alaire restrained a smile. "As the more obvious
positions became filled, as it were, it became a little
less obvious what to do with my brothers. I remember
Father once asking Mother why she couldn't have had
some girls for a change! But we coped, you know; and
when Drake, who's number six, turned out to have a
temper as fiery as his name, Father decided that he'd
better serve under Grant and have that temper tamed
with military discipline. The seventh, Craig, still
doesn't know what he wants to do. Last I heard,
Father was just going to leave it up to him." He left
out the fact that Craig was proving something of a
black sheep, idling his way among the ladies of the
court, and thinking of little besides clothing, wine and
women. Best not give him any ideas.
"And you're number eight —" Kai left the sentence
unfinished.
Alaire nodded. "Even as a child I felt like an embar-
rassment, with nowhere to go. The 'extra extra prince.'
I thought Father hated me after I heard him tell
Mother that bit about daughters."
Kai's expression was sour. "I think my father would
prefer a daughter."
But Alaire shook his head. "Don't be so certain.
When I thought Father had given up on me, he sur-
prised me. I remember the day clearly. I was only six,
but I remember when he came into the palace nursery
and shooed all the nurses away so we could talk, just
the two of us, 'man to man,' he said. He asked me
what I wanted to do, that I could be anything I wanted
to be. At first I didn't know what to say."
"And then?" Kai said. He was hanging on every
word, fascinated by Alaire's story.
"I told him I wanted to be a B-Minstrel." Alaire
stuttered. Sure hope he didn't pick up on that near
slip!
Kai laughed. "A B-Minstrel? Is that like a bar min-
strel, paid less, seen and heard only in bars?"
Alaire chuckled nervously. "Ah, no, just a garden
variety minstrel. He asked why, and I told him that —"
Think quickly, Alaire! "— that minstrels go every-
where and see everything and no one notices them.
They become part of the furnishings, and they learn a
lot. I wanted to do that, you see, to become Derek's
eyes and ears, and learn the things no one would tell
him to his face. And I had already chosen an instru-
ment. A harp."
He realized that he had wasted his frantic thought
when Kai ignored the long speech and focused on the
last words. "A harp! Did you bring it with you?"
He shrugged. "Well, it's back in my room."
"Please, you must play for me!" Kai urged, as
excited as a child with a promised treat.
Alaire assented, glad to be able to play at long last.
It's been a long few days since I've played anything,
with Bardic Magic or not. I have to admit it would be
a pleasure, and if anything it would give me a chance
to practice.
"Later," he promised. "After we've eaten. I'd be
happy to."
Kai seemed pleased all out of proportion to the
promise. "I didn't know you could play an instrument.
I tried to learn the lute, but I just didn't have what it
took, I guess." Then his expression fell. "Like every-
thing else in my life."
"That isn't true," Alaire responded automatically,
but couldn't think of any reason why this was so. I wish
I knew him better. I might be able to get a handle on
this, know which words to use to lift his spirits. But
here he is, getting all maudlin again.
"Father never talked to me that way," Kai contin-
ued, miserably. "I've never been more than a nuisance
to him. At least since I was ten. Before then we got
along just fine, but after that, well, something hap-
pened."
"It's not unusual for fathers and sons to have prob-
lems. Though they usually get worked out," Alaire
soothed, trying to guess what could have happened
when Kai was ten. A peculiar age for problems like
that to start. Early puberty, perhaps?
"But not our problems. He'd rather see me dead."
Kai took a long drink from the skin, licked his lips
loudly and burped defiantly. "It doesn't matter. What's
the point, after all? I can't please him, so I might as
well enjoy myself!"
Alaire shrugged. I chipped away some of the ice, at
least. For a little while, anyway. All this I'm seeing
now, this drunken fool of child, is his only defense
against himself and whatever or whoever he views as
his enemy.
"Well?" Kai asked. "You game?"
Alaire shrugged. "For what?"
"Another round of enjoyment, what else. After all,
you're useless too!"
He didn't really want to give in, and go through
another drunken evening, this one beginning much
earlier, at noon. But he remembered his promise to
Naitachal. Be a friend to Kai, and find out as much as
he can.
Well, Kai certainly needed a friend. And this was
something he felt he could become, given time. But
Alaire did not think he would see much useful infor-
mation out of Kai.
Alaire half expected to find Kai leading them back
to the tavern district; much to his surprise, however,
Kai took him out for a short walk on the palace
grounds. The day was unseasonably warm, so they
needed no coats. Alaire had no idea of their destina-
tion, however, until they reached the vineyards. These
grapes were, he soon learned, Kai's pride and joy.
"I had this strain planted myself," Kai said proudly,
before the rows of brown, dormant vines. Even with-
out the spring foliage, it was obvious that these were
particularly robust and healthy vines. "Over there is
the winery," Kai said, pointing to a rough rock building
up against the palace wall. Alaire sighed. It made per-
fect sense that the Prince had his own private
wine-making operation, given the amount the lad con-
sumed
"Are we going there today?" Alaire asked. He'd
wanted to grab a bite to eat, but Kai didn't seem to
care about food. The hunger pains had subsided
somewhat on their own, but Alaire knew that wouldn't
last.
"Not the winery. I have something else planned for
us."
Kai led him through an overgrown garden, brown
with winter. Alaire appreciated how these people
relied on natural growth to give form to their gardens.
In Althea the gardeners planted and pruned and
trimmed the palace garden into a sterile facsimile of
neatness, which required constant upkeep, even in the
winter. He hoped to see this place in the spring, and
perhaps bring some of these ideas back home.
They came upon a large wooden building that gave
Alaire no clues to what it contained — until they
entered it.
Good heavens! he thought, gazing about at the
racks of weapons, the open floor. This is a fighting-
practice arena!
It made sense to have sword practice indoors this
far north; what he found inside was clearly a training
area with a dirt floor. On the wall hung several weap-
ons; both of the wooden practice variety and the real,
lethal thing. He recognized fifteen distinct species of
sword, several spears, a cabinet of different knives.
The place smelled of leather, sawdust and sweat. And
someone was waiting for them.
"Young Kainemonen," a big, burly man growled.
"You're late."
"I apologize, Captain Lyam," Kai said solemnly.
"I've brought a friend. A... diplomat from Althea."
Captain Lyam ignored the introduction. The man
was huge, easily as tall as Alaire's father, and it was
obvious that all his immense weight was muscle and
sinew. His huge boots looked like something Alaire
could row across a lake, with room for fishing gear. His
scarred face looked like someone had ripped it apart
and clumsily reassembled it. One eye was slightly
higher than the other. He wore no insignia on the
loose shirt or the dark breeches, but his stance, solid as
a boulder and unmoving, commanded all the authority
that seemed needed. Kai withered, and looked away.
The Captain sniffed the air. "As I thought. Drinking
already, are we?"
Kai looked to deny this, but instead nodded meekly.
"Yes, sir," he squeaked. "I'm sorry."
"Oh, that you will be," Lyam assured him, in an
ominous tone that made the hair on the back of
Alaire's neck stand up. "That you will be!"
The scene was making Alaire uncomfortable. And
nervous; Lyam was easily five times the size and
weight of Kai, with longer arms and legs, both definite
advantages in sword fighting. Plus, Kai was hungover,
horribly hungover, a fact which Lyam appeared to take
great displeasure from.
Kai seemed resigned to his fate as he went over and
selected a sword from the wall, as Lyam did the same.
By the time they had taken positions in the center of
the practice ring, that same feral look he'd seen the
night before returned to Kai, as if touching the blade
had restored the madness that got them into that fight
with the sailors.
They wasted no time. They saluted with their
blades and immediately plowed into each other, a blur
of flashing steel that Alaire had trouble keeping up
with. Lyam advanced, pushing Kai backwards, yet the
boy was holding his own, deflecting every one of
Lyam's thrusts. But he wasn't making any headway
with the big man. Purely defense, this time; he just
didn't seem to have any energy today.
But Lyam did not look like he was making things
easy on purpose. The Captain gave all appearances of
delivering everything he had, a frightening prospect
no matter what Kai's condition was. The swords con-
tinued to clash, but despite Lyam's best efforts to
corner the boy, Kai expertly sidestepped, proceeding
to circle backwards, leaving his path clear. Alaire saw
that Kai had an advantage, after all. Though he was
much smaller than Lyam, this allowed him mobility.
He could move faster than the hulk he was up against,
and Kai took advantage of this.
Two other men appeared in the ring, dressed much
like Lyam, but neither had about him the same air of
authority. The bearded one had a skin tone that sug-
gested long years at sea. The other was a bit stockier,
but built like Lyam.
"You, take over," Lyam said to the shorter of the
men, who stepped in and began sparring with Kai.
The boy was sweating profusely now, but launched
into aggressive swordplay with the other, chasing him
around the ring the way Lyam had been chasing him
moments before.
Alaire relaxed, once Lyam paired Kai with a more
even opponent. The man was only a little taller then
the boy, and didn't seem to be too enthusiastic about
the practice. But he was fresh, and not suffering from
a night of drinking. Despite the lackluster challenge,
he was still a viable opponent. And the swords they
were using were real, lethal tools even a novice could
kill with.
As the new man warmed up to his work, he began
to display a certain sadistic enthusiasm. The new man
got a few good strikes in, slapping Kai's backside hard
with the flat of the blade to get his attention as Kai
grew wearier. He was also using street fencing and
underhanded tricks — exactly the kind of thing that
Kai could run across in the tavern district.
His relief on Kai's behalf was short-lived, however.
He felt a strange uneasiness, as if someone was staring
at him, and turned to see that Lyam was regarding
him with a hard, cold gaze.
"So, young Kai, how good do you think your friend
is here?" Lyam said after sizing Alaire up, gesturing
with his swordtip in Alaire's direction.
"He's passable," Kai shouted over the clashing
swords. The brief shrug didn't interfere with his
thrusts. "Give him a go if you want."
Me?
"Arm yourself, young man," Lyam said, grinning.
"Alvar, see what he's made of!"
The other man took a position in the ring, as Kai
and his opponent continued fighting. Alaire wasted no
time in arming himself, selecting a simple wooden
practice blade about the size and weight of the one he
used at home. He saluted Alvar, and immediately
regretted his choice. Alvar's blade was a good two
hands longer, and the man's reach was longer as well.
But Alvar was not very quick; the longer blade
made for less mobility all around, and Alaire quickly
touched him in several vulnerable places, once crack-
ing the blade hard against the man's arm, delivering a
bruise he hadn't intended. Alvar didn't seem to notice,
and continued sparring like the trained practice-
dummy he probably was, keeping Alaire alert, but not
inflicting any real damage.
Lyam, now rested, took over for Kai's partner, who
Alaire noticed was beginning to waver. He couldn't
figure out where Kai's energy was coming from; he
parried and thrust with the same skill Alaire had seen
the night before — but oddly, with none of the pleasure.
This was simple mechanics, the skill of the sword, but
this time Lyam seemed determined to make headway.
Lyam drove Kai out of the ring and into the wall,
hard. Kai ducked under the huge man, somersaulted,
and landed on his feet, sword ready.
Alvar took advantage of Alaire's distraction, thrust-
ing all too close to his torso, a controlled lunge that
could just as easily gone through his heart if they had
been using steel, like Lyam and Kai, instead of the
blunted wooden blades.
Lyam took over Alaire's practice, setting the other
stocky man on Kai again. He loomed over Alaire like a
giant, but Alaire saw that the man was getting tired.
Nevertheless, he was a consummate professional, and
he didn't make mistakes, even when weary. It took
everything Alaire had to keep up with the Captain,
even to the point of using some of Kai's evasive tactics,
but he didn't make the same mistake he had made
with his first opponent. His concentration didn't
waver. Lyam looked for an opening, but couldn't find
one.
"Hold!" Lyam boomed, and at once all swordplay
ceased. Alaire didn't catch on right away that this
meant practice was over, and made ready to thrust
again. A warning look from Lyam froze him in mid-
attack. His sword dropped.
The entire exercise couldn't have taken a quarter of
an hour, but Alaire found himself quite exhausted. His
practices with the Dark Elf were nothing like this. It
was as if they were training for a battle the next day in
which only one side would walk away.
In an odd way, Alaire felt terribly pleased with him-
self. He hadn't let Lyam score on him. He'd even
managed to pick up some new tricks from the Cap-
tain, and looked forward to using them with Naitachal
the next time they sparred.
Kai was breathing heavily, his hair and clothes
soaked with sweat. The boy's exhaustion was no real
wonder, given Lyam's special attentions and the rota-
tion of partners. He had no doubt sweated out every
drop of alcohol he'd ingested since the day before.
"Well done," Lyam said, and Alaire grinned shyly,
uncertain which of them he meant. Some unspoken
cue had dismissed the two assistants, who had disap-
peared to parts unknown without a comment.
Lyam turned to scowl at Kai. "If you come into
practice drunk tomorrow, I'm going to really wear the
drink out of you!"
Kai bowed slightly, but as Lyam turned and left the
ring, Kai made an absurdly comical face at his retreat-
ing back, mouthing some mute retort Alaire could
only guess the content of. The ridiculous expression
caught Alaire at an unguarded moment, and he almost
laughed out loud. He stifled his outburst with a great
effort, saving it for when Lyam was far, far away.
Moving a little slower now, Kai took his blade to
another rack. Althea had a similar arrangement at the
palace guardhouse, although it was more ornate, and
the minions were always present to take them person-
ally for sharpening. Metal though they were, these
were practice blades, and a lot sharper than Alaire felt
comfortable with. Alaire racked his weapon as well,
suddenly aware of muscles he didn't think he had.
"Gods, Kai," Alaire said as he lay the sword beside
his friends. "Is that typical for a workout?"
The familiar, arrogant look returned. "You didn't
think that was hard, did you?"
"Well..." Alaire began, unwilling to admit just how
soft his own training with Naitachal had been, in com-
parison. "Does he usually trade off partners like that?"
Kai grinned, like a fox. "All the time. It's why I can
kick the behind of anyone I want, whenever I want."
Alaire allowed that this made sense, but he didn't
like what it implied about Kai. He hadn't thought the
lad was a bully....
"Now it's time to get cleaned up in the sowna," Kai
said, shaking some of the sweat out of his hair.
"The what?"
"Come on. I'll show you."
Alaire didn't know what to expect, but this wasn't
anything he could have imagined for himself. Kai led
him to a part of the palace grounds somewhat con-
cealed by trees, where he found a crystal clear pond
fed by a generous freshwater spring. Near the shore
was a short, squat building made of timbers, built into
the side of a small, and clearly artificial hill. Smoke
poured out of a chimney, its fires apparently stoked by
servants prior to their arrival. The sweat was chilling
on his back, and he was looking forward to getting out
of the stiff breeze that had suddenly arisen.
"This is the sowna," Kai explained as they entered
the small structure through a narrow door. "I heard
you didn't have these down south. Shame, really.
They're really good for getting rid of muscle aches."
Within the sowna were two smaller rooms, the first
furnished with towels, bottled perfume and soaps, a
large wooden bucket of water, and a shelf where
someone's clothes were drying. A strong, acrid smell of
pine and cedar made him briefly dizzy, and cleared his
head in the process. Kai immediately began shedding
clothing.
Alaire hesitated, but began doing the same, won-
dering if the ritual included females. Kai sported a
lean, wiry frame, well developed for a seventeen-year-
old. Though Alaire was two years older, he found
himself comparing his own larger but less muscular
body with Kai's, sucking in a bit of baby fat that had
taken residence around his middle. He envied Kai's
build; but then, Kai had a torturer for a trainer.
When Kai opened the door to the second room, a
wave of heat and steam nearly knocked Alaire over,
and he recoiled reflexively.
"You get used to it," Kai assured him, but Alaire
bent lower, where the air wasn't as hot. Inside were a
few wooden stools, and mixed with the steam was a
strong scent of smoke. In one corner a hot bed of coals
heated a cluster of pitted, round rocks.
"What is this, an oven?" Alaire asked, sitting on one
of the stools. He yelped as his backside touched the
hot wood; he leapt up again, and did a little dance
around the stools.
" 'S not funny!" Alaire wailed. Kai chuckled. "You
could have at least warned me!"
"You are new to this, aren't you?" Kai said. He'd
brought the bucket of water in with them, first pour-
ing some on Alaire's stool, then sprinkling some on the
hot rocks. The temperature rose sharply.
"It's good for you," Kai said firmly. "Do you hurt
anywhere, after that match?"
"A few places," Alaire said. In truth he had strained
several muscles. Before practice he would normally do
several stretching exercises, but today he hadn't
enjoyed that little luxury. Also, he had unconsciously
tensed when he had realized Lyam was going to run
him through the same meat grinder he had Kai, and
that had added to his injuries.
"This will take care of that Sit down. Relax."
He did, finally, breathing the steam in through his
nose and exhaling through his mouth, as Kai demon-
strated. More water went on the coals, hissing an
angry protest. Little droplets of sweat ran down his
back and face. The heat relaxed him, and the steam
cleared his head.
"See what I mean?" Kai said, stretching his arms.
"You should take this idea back with you when you
return to Althea."
"I just may do that," Alaire said, feeling a little light-
headed.
"I didn't realize how good you really were," Kai said
off-handedly. "Lyam wasn't holding back when he had
at you. And those two he had sparring with us, those
are a couple of his best men. Who trains you, back
home?"
"The Ambassador," Alaire replied without thinking.
"The Dark Elf."
Kai offered a low whistle of surprise. "Remind me
not to try taking him on! He's a good trainer. Must
really know the sword"
Alaire was about to boast about some of Naitachal's
previous conquests with the blade, but thought better
of it. It would be too easy to mention the magic. I
really have to watch how much I tell. He eyed the boy
slyly, but Kai was only working a strain out of shoulder
muscle. Is he fishing for information? Better be on
guard.
"Where I come from, everybody trains for the
sword," Alaire said casually. "Even farmers. You never
know when someone might declare war on us."
If the last remark made any impact on Kai, the boy
didn't show it. "But you must admit that being a prince
does grant you certain privileges. Best trainers, best
equipment. What you did back there really impressed
me. And what's one better, it impressed Lyam. He
doesn't impress easily."
Alaire didn't know what else to say. His pride fully
swollen, he could easily forget the heat; the muscle
strains were melting away in it like butter on a skillet.
"What did you want to do this evening?" Kai asked
at last.
"First I'd like to get something to eat," he said. The
hunger had returned after that vicious practice session
with a vengeance. He can't be suggesting another
night on the town, could he? Not again!
"Then after that, what about going out to the tavern
district again?" Kai suggested hopefully. "You're good
company!"
Alaire hid his dismay. "Well, I don't know. I'd really
rather not, if you want to know the truth. And Nai-
tachal might need me. I am his assistant." Does he do
this every night?
Kai made a face, but relented. "The day is yours, my
friend. Whatever you like."
It sounded as if Kai might be willing to do without
his wine for once —
But Alaire was already suspecting that Kai was
going to come up with a way to get drunk anyway, no
matter what Alaire said or did
Chapter IX
Naitachal returned to their room to see if Alaire was
up yet, but arrived to find him gone. The Bard found
this surprising, since he'd had little sleep, and often
slept past noon at home. He must be chumming
around with the Prince. Good, Maybe he can find the
answers that I, so far, have failed to obtain.
Paavo's and Pikhalas' behavior confirmed, for the
Dark Elf, that a dark, sinister conspiracy reached to
the highest levels of Suinomen royalty. But this con-
spiracy did not seem to include the Crown Prince —
Odd, that. They still knew little about Kai, but what
Alaire had managed to observe pointed to a lack of
complicity on the child's behalf. If anything, the con-
spiracy targeted the Crown Prince as well as himself
and Alaire.
Kai is a black sheep, an outcast within the kingdom
that by rights he should one day inherit. This would
make him both an easy and desirable target for anyone
seeking to gain power, or even to seize the Crown alto-
gether.
The whole thing was troubling. Have we stumbled
into a coup in progress? Or are they — whoever
"they" may be — simply laying the groundwork for
one, and we happened to come along at a most inop-
portune time?
He had the feeling that men close to the King were
intentionally trying to shield him from foreign visitors,
while the King himself had no idea that anything of
the sort was going on. Naitachal certainly had the
impression at supper that the King intended to receive
him.
All right; let's assume that he wanted to talk to me,
but his minions are keeping me from seeing him. If
that is true, then enemies surround the King, and so
far that list includes Paavo, Johan Pikhalas, and per-
haps this Sir Jehan that Alaire mentioned last night.
Naitachal became suddenly worried for Alaire as
well as himself and Kai. We are the first and most
likely targets. If there is a coup, we'd be the first to die.
As the Dark Elf pondered these ominous thoughts,
he heard a soft knock on the door. Though the knock
was quiet, he started, reaching for his blade. The
knock sounded again, and Naitachal approached the
door, sword drawn.
"Yes? Who is it?" he said, ready for a garrison of sol-
diers to come storming through the door. "What do
you want?"
"Came to clean your room, sir," a young male voice
replied timidly.
Naitachal relaxed, but not completely. Could still be
a trap.
"Come in then," he said. Remember, no magic, just
good swordsmanship, if this is another assassin.
The door opened slowly, and a young boy, of per-
haps thirteen years, came in carrying a feather-duster
and a rag. He wore the simple clothing that the rest of
the servants wore, a tunic of soft suede, and short
boots that were little more than slippers. His long
brown hair fell over his face, but his eyes peered
through it, as he used it as a veil to hide his features.
When the boy saw the blade in Naitachal's hand, he
stopped dead in his tracks.
No threat here, Naitachal thought, and put the
blade away. "Never mind that," he said, gesturing for
the servant to come in. "Just practicing."
The boy smiled, apparently relieved, and stepped
closer to Naitachal. He looked up at the Dark Elf, and
his hair fell away from his face, which was full of won-
der. He stared for several moments, speechless,
almost to the point of being annoying.
I'm the first elf this boy's ever seen, Naitachal real-
ized, and softened even more. In most circumstances
he would not have appreciated this awkward atten-
tion, but because of the treatment so far from the
adults of this land, a smile, even a curious one, was a
welcomed sight.
"You speak Althean," the elf observed.
"Yes. A little," the child said shyly. "They teach it in
school. I'm a little keen on it. The teachers say it's
important to speak the southerner's tongue, since
we're going to be trading with you more soon."
"Do they really," Naitachal replied, a little more
dryly than he had intended. He had wondered why so
many of the natives spoke fluent Althean. But are they
teaching their youth our language to trade with us, or
to conquer us? In either case, a grasp of our language
would be useful.
The boy giggled, hiding his mouth with a grimy
hand.
Naitachal raised an eyebrow at him. "Did I say
something amusing?"
"Your ears. They pricked up, just then."
Naitachal felt blood rushing to his face, a mild but
uncontrollable response to an old, familiar embarrass-
ment. Whenever a human noticed his ears, his
reaction was always the same; perhaps it had some-
thing to do with growing up in a relatively closed elven
culture? This time, though, he was more amused than
anything.
"They did that because you said something interest-
ing to me," he told the boy, with a conspiratorial grin.
"Tell me, what do the grownups say about Althea?"
Naitachal made his ears wiggle; the boy giggled
again.
"Well, that it's warm, and beautiful, and seldom
snows." The child sighed as if that in itself was a won-
der. "And we can make lots of gold selling male dieren
down there."
"But no female dieren?"
"Oh, no," the boy said, as if he'd uttered something
incredibly stupid. "Then you could breed your own."
Naitachal burst into laughter. The boy was charm-
ing the shoes off him. The child's eyes widened, but in
delight, not fear.
This boy can be helpful, in many ways, he thought,
his mind turning to the practical side of their mission.
Ironic how the only information we've been able to
obtain on this country has been from their youths.
He grinned, and the boy grinned back, now sure of
Naitachal's harmlessness. "Tell me your name, lad."
"Erik," the boy replied, proudly. "Son of Eliel,
House of Lieslund."
"And I am Naitachal," the Bard replied, with a
courtly bow. "Now what does your father do?"
Erik hesitated for a moment, then replied. "He's a
teacher at the school. I wanted to be a teacher too, but
my father says it's a great honor to serve the King, even
if it's only cleaning the rooms for his guests." Erik
looked around the room, and shrugged. "Doesn't look
like there's much to do here. Nothing like the other
rooms I've seen."
"I recall a late party," Naitachal replied, absently.
"Perhaps you can help me. The King's liaison has
asked me to appear at the Swords of the Magicians'
Association Hall. I need to be there in an hour, and
I haven't the faintest notion where it might be."
The boys fresh innocence became a mask of horror.
"Oh, you don't want to go there! Are they going to
punish you for something?" He started walking back-
wards towards the door, as if proximity to Naitachal
would somehow taint him.
"It's quite all right," Naitachal said, somewhat puz-
zled by his reaction. "We have a similar institution in
Althea. They just wanted to show me how their system
works."
"You didn't work magic without paying the gold?"
"Of course not," Naitachal said, crossing his arms
and looking away stubbornly. "I don't look that stupid,
do I? They wanted to explain exactly how the Associa-
tion enforces the laws. In my own land, I am a kind of
law-maker myself."
This seemed to make only a slight difference; Erik's
gaze fell to the floor. "Then I guess I can tell you." He
walked over to the window. "Over here. You can see it
from here, outside the palace walls."
Erik pointed to a short, squat building, surrounded
by barren trees, but plainly visible in the winter sun,
just beyond the palace grounds. "Over there, near the
south wall. Don't look like much. But it's where they
keep —" He was about to say something else, but evi-
dently thought better of it.
"Where they keep what?" Naitachal asked casually.
"The Prison of Souls, perhaps?"
"I can't say. I mean, I'm not supposed to say. Think
I've already said too much." Erik turned, and made
ready to leave. "Is there anything I can fetch for you?
Clean sheets? A blanket?"
"Well," Naitachal said, wondering if he'd finally run
out of useful information. For the time being. This boy
is receptive and curious. At another time, I think he
could tell me many things about this palace the adults
never would. "We seem to be a little short on wood.
But before you leave, I just wanted you to know. I
won't be telling on you. What we talked about is a
secret. If you shouldn't talk about something, then I
never heard it." He gave the boy a wink that he hoped
was reassuring.
"Oh please don't say anything to Paavo," the boy
pleaded. "He'd have my hide for sure."
"That fool?" Naitachal laughed at the name, for
good measure. "I say as little as I can to that —" he
was about to say that human, and stopped himself.
"Well, that fool. That's the only word I can think of to
describe him."
Erik giggled again, reassured. He bowed, and said,
"Thank you, sir. I'll be back with your wood soon."
The boy vanished, his light, quick footsteps padding
down the hall.
Naitachal listened to him leave, then closed the
door firmly behind him.
Well, it looks like I've at least one ally in this
godsforsaken place!
No one challenged Naitachal as he passed through
the corridors of the main palace, though he felt some-
one was watching him, noting his movements. He said
nothing to Paavo as he let himself out through the
front doors, but he was aware of the man's beady eyes,
tracking him as he left. So be it, he thought. Let them
know where I'm going. Perhaps they'll arrange my
meeting with the King when they realize their childish
tactics are not going to douse my curiosity.
The day was unseasonably warm for what he had
come to expect from this land Though the trees were
barren of leaves, the grass brown, the vines in dor-
mancy, it felt almost like a spring day. For some reason
this reminded him of his harp, and in particular, how
little he'd practiced it lately. The beauty of nature
reminded him of music. He'd had no music at all in his
earlier years —
Well, he'd had little pleasure at all, devoting his life
to Necromancy; the only beauty socially allowable was
that found in the woodlands. Until he'd met Kevin in
the days of the famous Carlotta conquest, he had
never realized what a talent he'd had for music. Now
his true nature was tugging at him, and he resolved to
practice later that day.
Without Bardic Magic, of course.
And he would have to nudge Alaire about his own
practicing; in spite of the court intrigue they'd found
themselves involved in, the boy couldn't afford to get
rusty. Bardic Magic was a weapon of defense, but
music was an art.
Gods help us if either one of us are ever in a bind
serious enough to break these thrice damned laws of
Suinomen. Given the severity of the laws, and the
enthusiasm this kingdom appeared to have for enforc-
ing them, he doubted even the gods would be able to
do much on their behalf.
All he knew of this so far had come at secondhand
from Alaire; while he didn't doubt what the boy had
said, he needed to verify some of the things the
bardling had told. This whole mystery could hinge on
what I find in this Association Hall.
The uncertainty of how they would receive him put
a spring in his step, and heightened his awareness. In
no time at all he found the building Erik had pointed
out, somewhat reluctantly, from his bedroom window.
Everywhere but here the buildings stood so close
together that there wasn't a hand's-breadth of space
between them.
Except here.
There were no other buildings here, only a sad
tangle of trees and bushes, setting it apart from the
rest. Behind it, the hill rose steeply; too steeply to
build upon, perhaps. To the right was the wall of the
palace gardens. To the fore, the street. And to the
left —
To the left, a wide distance, full of tangled vegeta-
tion, separated the building from its neighbors, as if no
one wanted to build too near it
There was a thin trail leading to it, blown over with
leaves, that indicated very little foot traffic. But there
was an odd feeling to the place itself, as if something
hidden deep below the ground was — wrong. Very
wrong. Twisted.
To investigate further, however, he would have to
use magic to probe, and he had no desire to spend any
time in prison. This close to the Association Hall, he
expected that he would have very little time before the
wizards and magic-makers came storming out of the
squat building, looking for whoever was stupid enough
to cast a spell so near.
The Hall had no obvious guards, though he sus-
pected there were probably alarm-spells to notify
those within that a stranger was approaching. But as
he came to the entrance, its front door badly in need
of repair, he sensed nothing. Either they had used no
spell at all, or they were better at this than he sus-
pected.
He came to believe in the former, having seen
nothing so far during his visit to suggest any excep-
tional skill in the magical arts. They would have had to
be quite impressive to surprise me, Naitachal thought.
At times he found it easy, living with the humans, to
forget his Necromancer's past, his teachers and his
clan of Dark Elves. The elves' grasp of magic went
back many thousands of years, whereas the humans
had only recently mastered some of the rudiments.
Yet, that was often enough. In the hands of novices,
magic can be quite dangerous.
He knocked once on the large plank doors, noting
the worn paint, the bare places where the weathered
wood showed through. A few moments passed before
he considered letting himself in.
Presently, he heard footsteps advancing towards the
door, followed by a loud creaking as it opened. A
small, nervous man looked around the door, peered at
Naitachal, and made ready to shut the door in his face.
"Don't be so hasty," Naitachal said sternly, not using
a magical, controlling Voice, but with a normal, mun-
dane voice delivered in an authoritative tone. "I've
only come to see what this place is all about." The
Dark Elf advanced a step. "What wondrous magic you
must work in this place. You don't even need fight to
work by."
"Oh, but we do not permit elves here," the man said
timidly.
But Naitachal ignored him. "Don't be silly. I am a
visiting diplomat. If this place is off limits, then no one
has bothered to tell me." He entered a darkness punc-
tuated with dim, flickering candles, some no more
than stubs. No windows in this place; one or two
would make all the difference. "Who's in charge
here?"
"I am," a loud, booming voice announced. "Why
has an elf dared to darken the doorstep of the Associa-
tion Hall?"
"Soren!" the man who opened the door exclaimed.
"He forced his way in here. It wasn't my fault!" He ran
off into the shadows, and stopped there, gesturing
with agitation.
The second speaker answered him in an impatient
voice; the little man whined his reply. Naitachal stood
in the darkness, listening to them argue. As with any
elf, his eyes adjusted to the gloom quickly. An over-
weight wizard wearing a gaudy, tawdry robe glared at
him from a spiraling staircase. Naitachal wondered
how the flimsy staircase could hold the man's weight,
but evidently the wizard had no worries about it.
At the top of the stairs, Naitachal saw an opened
door. Naitachal only caught a glimpse of the room
beyond, but from where he stood, it looked like an —
establishment of dubious repute.
Scantily clad females appeared in the doorway and
peered down, confirming his suspicions, before
retreating nervously and closing the door behind
them.
"Please forgive my intrusion," he began evenly. "I
am Ambassador Naitachal from the kingdom of
Althea. While I respect your laws and do not wish to
violate them, I would like to see how precisely," he
paused, glancing up at the now-closed door, "the prac-
tice of magic is sanctioned and administered in your
fine land."
The wizard flushed, then blustered forward. "We
do not allow beings such as yourself in the Association
Hall."
Naitachal raised an eyebrow. "And why not?"
"It is — ah — forbidden."
Naitachal considered his situation. I can either
leave, or I can turn this into an international incident,
and then leave. But something tells me this is impor-
tant, that I need to see the inner workings of this place,
or at least as much as I can persuade them to show me.
"Perhaps I should leave then," Naitachal began.
"Soren, is it?" He coughed, politely. "I have to admit, I
am a bit disappointed at what I've seen already. In
Althea, we have granted our mages homes to equal
those of the wealthiest nobles, and they engage in the
councils of the King as equal to any there. I was under
the impression that your mages enjoyed equal power
and prestige, but it appears that I was mistaken. Per-
haps there isn't much for me to see here after all."
The elf turned to leave, arranging his face in a mask
of disappointment.
"Now wait just a minute," Soren began. "It's not
entirely fair to judge our Association by just what
you've seen here. We have power and honor!"
Naitachal paused, then said casually over his shoul-
der, "Frankly, I have not seen anything yet that would
lead me to agree with that statement. Unless you
would like to show me the inner halls of this place."
The wizard hesitated, as if he was tempted to prove
to the Bard that his words were no boast.
"What could it hurt?" Naitachal added. "My liaison
has never said this was forbidden to me. Go ahead.
Impress me. If you can."
The wizard stammered unintelligibly; Naitachal
shrugged and started for the door.
"If you would follow me," Soren sputtered. "I will
escort you to the heart of the Association Hall, the
place of our deepest and most powerful magics. Only
if you promise not to wander off by yourself."
"Very well," Naitachal agreed, and turned back.
Soren descended the rest of the stair and motioned to
him to follow.
The wizard led him through a short passageway,
opened a door with a flourish, and gestured grandly.
"Behold!" he said, proudly. "The heart of the Associa-
tion!"
"This is it?" Naitachal almost said. He couldn't
believe it. All the kingdom's magic is performed in this
little place?
Though considerably larger than the great hall of
the palace, this place left much to be desired. At least
here some sunlight came in through two narrow
windows, high at the top of the rafters. It was enough
light, though, to show the sheer barrenness of the
room, the pale wood planks that served as wall and
floor, the brazier that hung above them, the unpainted
walls. Hanging in the air was a nasty aroma reminding
him of burning tar.
"So, as I understand it — all magic must be cast
here, and only by license." He raised an eyebrow. "To
someone from my land this seems somewhat —
restrictive."
"The King is very generous when he grants licenses
to practitioners," Soren replied defensively. "He
almost never turns anyone down."
"Interesting." Naitachal tried to look as if it was
interesting. "How much does a license cost? For say, a
simple spell of good luck?"
Soren beamed. "Oh, that would be three thousand
crowns. More, depending on the duration of the
spell."
Naitachal wasn't sure what that translated into
Althean currency, but it sounded high. Nothing he saw
explained why such things were regulated; and
nowhere did he see a sign of all the official mages that
were supposed to be here. All those wizards mat had
burst into the Audience Chamber the day they arrived
were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they resided in the
palace on a more or less permanent basis.
Perhaps not. Perhaps, despite the robes and silly
hats, they hadn't been wizards at all. Perhaps this
whole thing was a facade.
But if that were the case, who was finding the "unli-
censed" mages last night? And who had cast that spell
of magic-detection that had come sweeping over him-
self and the boy before they ever arrived here?
The hall wasn't empty. At one end, sitting outside a
circle of what was probably salt, crudely drawn inside
a pentagram, a "wizard" sat staring at the contents of a
jar which was set at the middle of the pentagram. He
sat cross-legged, looking utterly bored. As Naitachal
watched, he yawned.
"He's been there all day. I'm not sure what he's up
to," Soren said. "I hope you didn't have something in
mind. He's booked the Hall for the rest of the day."
"And if I did?" Naitachal asked, shrewdly. "And I
had the coin?"
Soren shook his head nervously. "I'm afraid that
simply wouldn't be allowed. First of all, you're not a
citizen."
The Dark Elf suspected this was the least of the
reasons.
"And —" the wizard continued. "You're an — elf."
Naitachal chuckled, surprising the wizard. "I know
that. My parents told me, long ago; my mirror repeats
that information every day. What special significance
does that have?"
Soren frowned, looking down at the wood floor. "I
think perhaps it is time for you to leave." He started
towards the door. "This way, sir."
Naitachal shrugged. Nothing he had seen here shed
any light on his problems. And he wasn't happy that
not one of his main questions had been answered.
This is not where they practice the real magic.
Instead, this is just the place where they let the ama-
teurs sit and stare at pentagrams and crystals. The
answer must be somewhere in the palace, in a place I
haven't seen yet.
As Soren led him to the front door, Naitachal
sensed something beneath the hall, deep under-
ground. It was the same ominous darkness he'd felt
earlier, but stronger now, and obviously coming from
directly beneath him. Soren seemed oblivious to it,
which only made sense; the Dark Elf had already
decided he was far from being a "real" magician. His
magical abilities are probably only a notch or two
above those of the poor chap back there staring at the
jar.
But there was an — entity — down there, beneath
the Hall. Alive, malicious, and very, very much aware
of his presence. Something is down there, something
not of Earth, and it's watching me.
He wanted to probe, to see what this thing was, but
that would mean using magic. So tempting...
Perhaps this is exactly what someone has in mind.
Chapter X
After sitting in steam for as long as they could stand it,
Kai led Alaire out of the sowna and immediately went
charging into the small lake just outside. He
instructed Alaire to follow.
"Trust me!" Kai shouted.
Alaire shook his head, and regarded the lake dubi-
ously. Under pretense of making certain of their
privacy, which was in doubt given the leafless state of
the trees separating them from the rest of the palace
grounds, he hesitated for several long minutes before
immersing his bare body in what had to be ice-cold
water. Then finally, after increasingly scathing com-
ments from Kai regarding his masculinity, he tested
the water by dipping a single toe in the frigid lake.
"Aaaarrrrgh!!" Alaire shouted, leaping back from
the water's edge. A thin skin of ice was forming around
the shore. "You've got to be kidding!"
Kai stood waist-deep in the lake, and his expression
said clearly the Prince considered Alaire's manhood to
be in question after all.
A gust of chill breeze reminded him that it was win-
ter above the water as well as below. Gritting his teeth,
he forced himself to plunge into the lake. If it will
impress Kai...
The icy water instantly numbed his body. He
immediately turned around, intending to get out as
quickly as he had got in, and stepped into a deep
depression. Cold water closed over his head He
flailed his arms in panic until his feet gained purchase
on higher ground. When he lurched up to the surface,
clutching his sides, he tried to scream. But his voice
wouldn't work.
"That's more like it," Kai said. He was getting out of
the water, heading back to the sowna, where their
clothes were.
"Where are you going?" Alaire managed to gasp.
Kai grinned. "Back where it's warm. It's cold in
there!"
Alaire could have strangled him. But he figured this
would not bode well for any future diplomatic relations
with Suinomen. He followed Kai out of the lake,
hip-hopping to the shore, hoping to speed up his
circulation. Chagrined, he noticed that certain important
portions of himself had retreated in terror into his body.
The sacrifices I make for Althea, he thought, shiver-
ing his way back to the sowna.
He had no idea where Kai was taking him. They'd
donned their simple clothes and headed back to the
palace, without a word said about their destination.
"Where are we going?" Alaire asked casually as they
entered the warmth of the palace. "We're not going
out again are we?"
Kai smirked, giving his companion the impression
he was keeping an amusing secret to himself. "I've
already said we weren't. Besides, do you think I'd be
caught dead in public in these clothes?"
Alaire shrugged, resigned to the fact he would find
out where they were going when they got there. He
had to admit, after the steam in the sowna, followed
by the brisk dip in the icy lake, he was very much
awake now. His strained muscles now felt better.
Alaire mentioned this to Kai, who replied, "The
heat in the sowna, followed by the cold water, helps
that. I'll bet you feel it tomorrow, though. But it won't
be nearly as bad. I told you there was a good reason for
everything!"
Alaire grumbled under bis breath about barbarians
and torture, but the boy pointedly ignored him.
They strolled through some of the more highly
decorated portions of the palace, halls covered with
murals of rustic revelry. Intricate scroll work deco-
rated the trim and moldings — or rather, appeared to.
On further examination, he saw that this was an illu-
sion; a skilled artist had painted the flat wood surfaces,
giving the impression of sculpted plaster with cleverly
depicted shadows. He wondered if this was some
obscure comment on Suinomen society.
Servants stopped what they were doing and bowed
deeply as they passed, but Kai didn't bask in the atten-
tion as much as Alaire thought he might. He doesn't
feel like a prince, Alaire said to himself. Perhaps he
does feel as worthless as he says he is.
The end of the hallway opened onto a grand, com-
pletely enclosed, glassed-in balcony, which overlooked
the bay. This portion of the palace perched vertically
upon the cliff face, as much, he reasoned, for security
as for the sheer beauty of the view. Boats wallowed at
their anchorages in the shallow waves of the harbor
below. The sight, combined with the abundance of
sun warming the balcony, made him feel slightly
drowsy.
"Ah, Helena, my sweet," Kai cooed as a well-
endowed maiden came flouncing over from a window
seat and pecked him on the cheek. "You ready to
marry me yet?"
Helena giggled, as did three other young women
sprawled about on the cushioned benches set below
the windows. Two of them could have been twin
sisters; when Alaire appraised them from a discreet
distance, he realized they probably were. Long, silky
curtains hung on the walls, giving the balcony a very
feminine atmosphere.
He started to feel uncomfortable as he tried to
assess the kind of situation Kai had introduced him to.
This did not look like his mother's solar — but it also
did not look like anything else he recognized.
He was afraid that the young women here might be
something other than the kinds of young women he
should be associating with.
The prospect made his stomach quiver.
Alaire was, even at the not-so-tender age of nine-
teen, still a virgin, and though naturally desirous of
rectifying the situation, he knew it would be madness
to even dream of doing so here and now. "Assume
every friendly female you meet is in the employ of our
enemies," Naitachal had said. Wise advice, Alaire
reluctantly knew. Naitachal had often commented that
his upbringing had an odd mixture of naivete and
street smarts.
Don't get ahead of yourself, he thought. You don't
know what's going on here yet. There could be an
innocent explanation for all this!
Right. These are Kai's schoolmates. And those boats
down there are going to take to the air and fly away
like a flock of gulls.
"And who's this?" Helena said, moving closer to
Alaire. He unconsciously took a step backwards. "A
new friend?"
"Allow me to introduce ..." Kai began, pausing at
Alaire's warning look. "One of the ambassadors from
Althea. Meet his Lordship, Alaire Re-Risto. Alaire,
meet Helena."
Helena bowed slightly, offered her hand. Alaire
took it and kissed it gallantly.
The twins giggled hysterically. Alaire's face burned.
Kai proceeded with the introductions.
"And over there," Kai gestured grandly towards the
twins, "are, in order of appearance, Heikki and Aini."
He leaned closer to Alaire, whispered, "And I think
they like you. They like to share, if you know what I
mean!"
Alaire fought back a wave of dizziness. "Pleased to
meet you!" he said, to no one of them in particular. His
words came out a full octave higher than usual.
He leaned over to Kai, whispered back, "No! I don't
know what you mean!"
"And the fourth lady," Kai continued, indicating a
more modestly dressed lady a bit older than the oth-
ers, "is Rajanen. She will be entertaining us today on
the harp."
"On the . . ." Alaire started, glancing around the
room. What he had first thought was an oddly shaped
piece of sculpture was a harp indeed, the large, non-
portable kind that remained in music rooms and
moved only rarely.
Rajanen smiled politely and stood up. Gracefully,
she made her way over to the instrument, seated her-
self on a small stool, leaned the huge instrument
against her shoulder, and began playing. It was a soft,
lilting tune, evidently selected to tranquilize. Or, as in
Alaire's frame of mind, calm the jitters. Perhaps she
observed this; the prospect made his face burn even
more.
"Come. Let's sit." Kai led them over to the flat
couches, and clapped his hands three times. "Now we
will have that meal you've been begging for since this
morning."
At first he thought Kai was referring to something
besides food. Out here? In the open? Better come up
with some kind of story, something conventional,
something believable, and something that would make
me... He thought about it a moment. Got it!
"I'm engaged back home," he blurted out. His
announcement passed without comment. As they sat
on the cushioned benches, now out in the full sun, two
servants appeared with trays of food Oh. The two
young men didn't seem to notice the women as they
entered They stared straight ahead, unblinking. They
opened small folding tables and set the trays down,
taking the silvered covers with them. Kai hardly
acknowledged them as they marched back into the
palace.
Alaire regarded the food in a mixed mood. He was
hungry, yet his stomach was in knots. Still, the sword
"practice" had taken a lot out of him, and the romp in
the royal ice water had put an edge on his hunger.
"Pheasant!" he exclaimed, in approval. "And —
what's that?"
"That's dieren ribs, of course! You do eat meat in
Althea, do you not?"
"Of course we do," Alaire said, picking up one of
the ribs. He saw no silverware, so he assumed this to
be proper etiquette. "But remember, we don't have
dieren. I'd never even seen a dieren until I got here."
"You hadn't?" Kai asked, momentarily perplexed
until his attention suddenly shifted back to the fair
ones who had joined them and were hanging on his
every word. Intoxicated by rank.
Helena had firmly planted herself next to Alaire,
and proceeded to lightly run her fingers across his
thigh. He found himself sweating profusely.
Rajanen continued to play her harp, oblivious to
everything but her music.
After lunch the servants came in and took the trays
and tables away, replacing them with an iced-down
bucket of bottled ale.
"Ah, that's more like it," Kai said, reaching for one
of the bottles.
"Oh, don't be such a barbarian!" Helena said play-
fully. "You're shoving the cork into the bottle!"
"Ah, but I am a vulgar barbarian," Kai replied. "I
always shove the cork in the bottle. When you tip it
over, it doesn't drain away as fast!"
Unamused, Alaire pretended to laugh along with
the rest. It's starting all over. Another day, another
drunk for Prince Kainemonen. At least this time we're
safe inside the palace instead of out tavern-hopping
with the ugly crowd. He reconsidered this, remem-
bering Naitachal's clash with the assassin, and all the
unanswered questions about the political climate of
Suinomen, and frowned. Perhaps we would be safer in
The Dead Dragon Inn!
Kai handed him an ale, and opened more for the
ladies, then, finally, one for himself.
The Prince began a long, exaggerated account of
their adventures the night before, throwing in hordes
of drunken sailors, mobs of villainous ruffians, an
elaborate chase through the city streets with the con-
stables hot on their heels, and an encounter with an
illegal magician who supposedly performed a spell
that set the tavern they were drinking in afire. The
ladies listened avidly, evidently believing every word
he said, For good measure, he threw in a few heroic
words for Alaire, explaining how Alaire had — with
Kai's help, of course — beheaded four of the sailors
with a single sword blow. Kai drank and fibbed, emp-
tying one bottle of ale after another. Soon a noticeable
flush came over the boy; he was almost as drunk as the
night before.
"Well," Kai said, wrapping his arms around the two
sisters. "Please excuse me for a moment. I'll be right
back."
Alarmed, Alaire watched as Kai, Heikki and Aini
rose, Kai winking at him for effect They disappeared
down a hallway, which led presumably to a bed some-
where.
Now what? Alaire thought, looking around nerv-
ously, but pointedly not looking at Helena. Helena
leaned closer. He looked for the harpist to request a
tune to break the ominous silence, noticing the music
had stopped sometime during Kai's long tale, and saw
that Rajanen had vanished too. Discreetly, he thought.
She knew what was about to happen. He glanced over
at Helena, who somehow moved closer still, almost
purring. Her hand, stilled during Kai's story, recom-
menced its work.
In panic, Alaire leaped to his feet, intending to pace
the balcony. It was a moment before he realized what
his sudden move had done; Helena sat sprawled on
the floor.
Oh gods! he thought, rushing over to her. "I'm so
sorry!" When he helped her up, he saw, thankfully,
that she didn't seem angered. "I don't know what
came over me."
As he offered his hand, Helena took it, running a
long fingernail seductively across his palm.
At the sudden, unexpected sensation, his hand
spasmed; Helena went sprawling a second time.
"Oh no! Helena, I..."
When he saw her face, words failed him. This time,
he thought she was going to slap him. He wanted to
slap himself. He offered his hand again, but this time
she refused his help. Wisely, he thought.
"I think I can manage," she said softly, but the slight
edge to her voice was unmistakable. "Is something
wrong?"
Alaire sat beside her on the bench, his face in his
hands. He hoped this posture would elicit the right
amount of sympathy for him, but he doubted it.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that, I'm engaged to be
married."
"I didn't see an engagement ring," she sniffed. "But
I suppose I shouldn't have assumed."
"It's a long story," he said, hoping she wouldn't
probe his weak lie any further. "You are very beautiful,
Helena. Prince Kainemonen has . . ." Good taste?
Attractive friends? Pleasant company? "Misjudged
the circumstance. I wasn't expecting —" A harem?
"This balcony. Please accept my apologies. I meant no
insult."
She smiled, this time with visible regret. "Shame,"
she said whimsically, getting to her feet. She regarded
him with a gamin pout. Alaire's stomach quivered.
Again.
"Your lady is a fortunate soul," she said simply, and
left the balcony by way of the same exit Kai and the
twins had taken.
Alaire stared after her for several long moments,
wishing the whole thing had never happened, or at
least gone... well, differently. Suddenly he was filled
with vain regrets and longings. Lucky she had left
when she did!
Now what is Kai going to think of me? Will he
believe my story about the fictitious fiance? Probably,
though he may wonder why I didn't mention her
before.
Then it hit him. She's gone to join them! Three? In
one afternoon? No wonder he wasn't looking for
women when we were out last night.
The whole incident left Alaire feeling both embar-
rassed and depressed, a very unpleasant mix of
emotions. I'm not a prude. Am I? The tavern wenches
of the night before behaved better than these ladies.
Courtiers should act better than this. Then again,
perhaps he was assuming too much. This isn't Althea,
after all. I shouldn't expect their people to have the
same social rules we do. But they were in the company
of the Prince. And evidently good friends.
"You don't approve, do you, young ambassador?"
Alaire turned violently at the sudden spoken words.
Captain Lyam stood in the doorway, his arms folded,
with a wry grin of amusement on his rough face. The
young man got to his feet, feeling and acting like a
schoolboy caught at something naughty.
The Captain entered the room casually, as if he
owned it. It might not have been obvious to anyone
else, but Alaire has seen that kind of careful, too-
casual looking around before. He's making sure we're
alone, he thought, and relaxed. It didn't feel like an
intrusion. It felt, instead, like a rescue.
"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," Lyam began. "Sound
carries quite well from this particular room, and Kai
made no secret of who was in here. And why."
Alaire felt his ears burning again, wondering what
exactly the Captain had heard, particularly of the
exchange between himself and Helena. Oh gods, he
bemoaned. Did this man hear me turn down the direct
proposition of a beautiful lady? This was no longer a
question of his behavior as a visiting ambassador of
another nation; this was a question of his own mascu-
linity. This is getting personal.
"Helena seemed intent on entertaining you, young
man," Lyam said, strolling over to one of the benches,
and sitting down as he if owned the place. "What was
the real reason you turned her down?"
Alaire successfully stifled a gurgle. "I —" he began,
and stammered. He must have seen through the fiance
story. "She was, how shall I say it, too, too —"
"Brash?"
Alaire shrugged.
"Forward? Brazen?"
Alaire nodded mutely. Close enough.
"1 agree," Lyam said. "She's a little — well, light-
minded would be the polite term."
Alaire looked up, somewhat dazed. He was going to
call her something else, and I bet I know what that
something else was!
"Some women are worth courting," Lyam contin-
ued, scratching his bearded chin thoughtfully. "For a
long time. Months. Years, sometimes. And then, when
the moment is right, and you love the woman and she
returns it, the results that come with that love are
appropriate."
Alaire started to relax with this man; this was not
the same person he had been sparring with earlier that
day. Lyam was more like a concerned father now; not
a vicious opponent. His bump of caution told him he
should be a little more wary around this man, but his
heart was telling him it wouldn't be necessary.
"Where did the Prince go?" Lyam asked suddenly.
He must know the answer, Alaire knew, but he
humored him anyway. He nodded towards the door.
Lyam's eyes rolled, and he slowly shook his head.
"And you don't approve," Alaire said.
The man grimaced. "I gather you do not, either."
Since it was clear to him his masculinity was no
longer in doubt, he felt free to speak "No, sir, I don't.
In our kingdom, ladies do not behave that way. Or if
they do — well, they are not ladies, and their conduct
is not appropriate. And — sir, no prince should have
friends of that sort."
"Those women are no friends of his," Lyam spat
"Nor is Sir Jehan," Alaire blurted.
Lyam regarded him with a hard stare. Alaire
instantly regretted the slip. What are you saying, you
fool! he screamed at himself. You don't know what
side he's on! The stare softened, and Lyam nodded, in
agreement.
"Indeed he isn't" Lyam replied, regarding him fur-
ther, with an expression that made Alaire think of
hidden blades, and ambushes in dark places. "I just
don't know what to think of you, young bardling. You
are — a careful observer."
But his eyes told Alaire that he had made up his
mind already —
Wait a minute! Young bardling? How does he know
that?
Yes. How could he know that? Alaire wondered
about his safety then. Lyam. I'm sitting in the same
room, unarmed, with a master swordsman who could
only know I was studying to be a Bard if he were the
King's Spymaster as well as the Captain of the
Guard —
Alaire tensed suddenly, looking for an escape.
Lyam sat without motion, his gaze unwavering.
"I would not speak, or move very quickly, if I were
you," came the deep, reassuring voice of Alaire's Mas-
ter, from somewhere behind the length of curtains.
The curtains fluttered, and Naitachal stepped out
from behind them, as casually as if he'd entered the
room under common circumstances.
Lyam did not react, nor did he seem surprised. His
expression remained bland.
Naitachal offered no explanation of his presence,
and Lyam didn't ask for one. The Dark Elf's black
cloak fluttered in the breath of air that came in from
the hall; he paced forward with his flowing, graceful
walk, as smoothly as a cat. He stood a few feet away,
looking as serene as he'd ever been.
How in the world did he get back there? Alaire
wondered. He had no idea how his Master done so
without using magic, but still Alaire was very grateful
to see him there. I might live now. He could only
guess that Naitachal knew, somehow, that he and Kai
would come to this balcony, and had crept behind the
curtains unnoticed before they arrived.
Lyam continued to sit very calmly, showing no sign
of alarm. "Believe me, Ambassador, if I had wanted
your protege dead, he would be so now."
"Using the same tactics your underling employed
against me last night?" Naitachal asked smoothly.
For the first time during the encounter, Lyam was
visibly rattled. "Last night?"
Naitachal studied him further, saying nothing.
Alaire knew his Masters expression well; it boded soft
speech and clever verbal maneuvering that could pull
the words right out of one's mouth, and get one to
confess to almost anything. I sure hope he's not using
magic to help him right now....
"Ambassador, are you claiming you were attacked?"
Lyam stared at the Dark Elf with narrowed eyes.
"Why didn't you summon help?"
Naitachal shrugged. "None seemed available at the
time, and afterwards, I doubted it would make any dif-
ference. So. You didn't send an assassin to kill me?"
Lyam seemed flustered. "What possible reason
would anyone have to do that?"
Naitachal frowned. "I did not think you to be so
obtuse, Captain. To trigger a war, of course. But if you
did not —"
"I most certainly did not!" Lyam exclaimed. "I was
looking for an ally in your company, not a target for
assassination!"
Silence, for a long moment. "Then who could
have?" Naitachal asked, grimly.
Alaire caught a key word in Lyam's last statement.
Ally. That would imply an inner political struggle of
some sort, one that this man would want us to take
sides on. Perhaps our guesses weren't so far off after
all
Naitachal seated himself on one of the benches,
folding his hands comfortably, and unaggressively, on
his lap. The posture had the desired effect; Lyam
relaxed slightly, emphasizing how little he'd tensed up.
Naitachal began. "My researches lead me to trust
you, sir. In fact, I came looking for you, Captain Lyam.
I wish to lay my cards on the table, so to speak."
Lyam nodded cautiously.
"I have... questions. The first, and most obvious to
me, is why are there so few non-humans in this land?
This was not the case several years ago. Though other
non-humans were not plentiful, the dwarves, who are
excellent artificers and makers of weapons — and
never had much love for magic either—were present
in great numbers."
Lyam nodded in agreement, opened his mouth to
say something, then apparently thought better of it.
He let Naitachal continue uninterrupted.
"My own people, as well as the White Elves, visited
Suinomen often enough that most folk knew, at least,
what an elf looked like. Your own Guard employed
many orcs upon the northern border. But all of this
has changed." Naitachal raised a single eyebrow,
inquisitively. "Why?"
Lyam cleared his throat, but Alaire could see it was
only a stalling tactic, designed to give him time to for-
mulate an answer. Yes, Captain of the Guard. Why is
that? If anyone would know, you would.
"Well," Lyam said. "The non-humans were at one
time more numerous, I must admit But about
twenty-five or thirty years ago, the government
encouraged them to leave. Something happened back
then — what, I do not know, but it was decisive, and
sudden. I was a child herding dieren in the hills then; I
remember nothing except that suddenly the
non-humans were gone. And this didn't happen over
several years. It happened almost overnight. And now,
the government advises those who cross our borders to
cross back as soon as their business is complete. Once
they hear about the Prison of Souls, they usually find
urgent business elsewhere."
Naitachal nodded sagely. "Was this about the time
magic became illegal?"
Lyam frowned. "Suinomen has always regulated
magic," he corrected carefully. "At that time, however,
it became more difficult to practice. That's when the
Association came into existence. And, of course, the
Prison of Souls."
"And the Swords of the Magicians?" Naitachal per-
sisted.
"The same. They are the enforcement arm of the
Association. Actually, magic isn't illegal, it simply
requires a permit."
Naitachal snorted. "Let us not spar with words, my
dear Captain. Semantics is my specialty. Magic is, for
all intents, illegal in Suinomen. I've seen the Hall, and
the farce it really is. No magicians of any reputation
would bother with it And how much is the price of a
'license'? More than most can afford. It is a common
tactic, my friend—if you wish to make something dif-
ficult to obtain without actually making it illegal, you
put a high price upon it. And I am sure, if someone
like myself actually had the gold to pay for such a
license, there would be other obstacles to obtaining it
than mere money."
Lyam seemed chastened, but didn't seem eager to
leap to the defense of Suinomen's magical policy. "Of
course, the magician in question would have to pass
certain criteria. He couldn't have a history of non-
compliance with Suinomen law."
"He couldn't have a criminal record," Naitachal
translated. "I'll agree with that. What else?"
"His political view would have to align with the
King's"
Naitachal shrugged "And?"
"It would be helpful, but technically necessary, to
have a friend within the Association."
"That goes without saying," Naitachal said dryly.
"Now, assuming one had all those things, what would
be the price of an unlimited license — the kind the
mages of the Association have?"
Lyam sucked in his breath, shook his head. Ten
thousand crowns."
"That's outrageous," Naitachal said, echoing Alaire's
thoughts. "How can anyone, much less professional
magicians, afford such a fee?"
Lyam raised his upturned palms in helplessness, a
strange gesture from a man as strong, physically and
psychologically, as he. "I don't make the rules, Ambas-
sador. The answer is, they don't, because there are no
professional magicians in Suinomen, save for the ones
in the King's employ. The Association, in other words."
Naitachal nodded "And it goes full circle. Magic is
legal, but it isn't, and the only magicians who can prac-
tice their trade are for all intents and purposes dancing
to the tune called by the King. Am I leaving anything
out?"
Alaire cringed at the last statement his Master
made. If he doesn't watch out, he's going to alienate
Captain Lyam, and we need this man.
But Lyam did not take exception to Naitachal's
evaluation of Suinomen; if anything, he appeared to
be in full agreement.
"No, I don't believe so," he said simply. "As I said, I
don't make the policy."
"Yes, I know. Another thing," Naitachal said, leading
the conversation, "What gave the King the notion that
his son is conspiring against him?"
That Lyam didn't seem surprised indicated this was
probably a common rumor. "I'm not in His Majesty's
confidence. However, I am the Prince's friend as well
as his swordsmanship tutor, and I do not think there is
any truth in the idea."
Naitachal cast a questioning glance towards Alaire,
as if to confirm this. Alaire picked his words carefully.
"Captain Lyam here is an excellent swordsman, and
from all I could see, he and the Prince have a unique
friendship. I think that the Prince needs friends. He is
nowhere near as — ah — mature as he would like to
appear."
Lyam nodded. "The boy is raw, that is for certain;
he's like a cornered wildcat if the wrong blades
come after him, and he won't hesitate to defend
himself in a fight, but I know for a fact that he has
no designs on the throne. In fact, I think he would
rather not have the throne. He dreads the day he
will have to sit in it, because he knows it will be the
end of his freedom when he does. And — I think he
fears that day as well, because he knows how ill-
prepared he is to rule."
"I suspect this might be the reason for his hedonis-
tic lifestyle, then," Naitachal said. "Which, because of
his extreme youth, has yet to affect his health."
"The Captain keeps him in shape," Alaire offered.
"If it's not the other way around," Lyam said. "He'll
never believe I said this, so I feel confident telling you.
That young hothead gives me a greater run than he
thinks when we spar."
Alaire disagreed. What he had seen earlier that day
did little to convince him this was true. He's belittling
his own skill, perhaps so we will underestimate him.
Shrewd, but not necessarily suspicious. This doesn't
mean he's an enemy; it means only he is not willing to
divulge everything yet.
Naitachal gazed off into the distance, over Lyam's
shoulder. "If Kai isn't after the throne, then who is?"
Lyam frowned. "I'm not certain that's what's afoot. I
am not privy to all the information this palace con-
tains."
Naitachal's tone was heavy with irony. "But surely,
being the Captain of the Guard..."
... and Spymaster... Alaire added to himself.
"That does not guarantee my complete knowledge
of royal affairs," Lyam replied firmly. "This may have
been true at one time, but I suspect that I got this
position because I was an outsider. That may sound
odd to a foreigner, but the true power doesn't lie with
anyone in a martial appointment."
Naitachal looked faintly surprised. "Where then,
does it lie?"
It was Lyam's turn to snort. "With the magicians, of
course. The palace has a monopoly on the powers of
the mages, you see. Powerful wizards, who can level
the walls of this palace in mere moments with their
raised energies."
Naitachal chuckled. "Please. What I saw in the Hall
didn't impress me."
Lyam simply smiled. "Who said they were in the
Hall? Only the amateurs operate there. When you
first met the King, and his bodyguards — and wizards
— came charging out to defend him against an unex-
pected elf, where did they come from?"
Naitachal considered this. "Of course. From behind
the King's throne. They reside in the palace."
Lyam got to his feet, calling a halt to the discussion.
"We've spoken long enough here." He turned to
Alaire. "I would be grateful if your pupil would con-
tinue to keep company with the young Prince. If I
cannot keep him from folly, I would like to know there
was someone at his back that I can trust"
He started toward the entrance, then paused and
turned back for a moment. "Oh, and another thing.
Avoid magic. I'm not certain diplomatic immunity
would protect you. And also, if you wish to confer later
tonight, my room is one floor above yours, and I think
two doors to the north. It's the corner suite, which the
King has been gracious enough to provide for me. But
be discreet. It would start tongues wagging if anyone
saw you paying me a visit Good day, Master Bard."
Master Bard? Alaire thought, stunned. Is there any-
thing Lyam doesn't know about us?
He and his Master watched the large man leave; he
noticed this time that the Captain's head barely
cleared the doorway as he passed beneath it Naitachal
stared after him thoughtfully.
"He is, or was, the King's Spymaster," Naitachal
said, after a long moment. "Was, I think. He keeps his
network of spies still, but it is a small one now and he
is no longer in the King's confidence."
Alaire wanted to ask how precisely he knew this,
but experience had shown the Dark Elf would not
waste his breath, and precious time, explaining. If any-
thing, Naitachal would berate him for not figuring it
out for himself.
And in a moment, he had figured it out. "He's
friends with the Prince, but he doesn't know why the
King mistrusts his own son, and he hasn't been able to
do anything about that mistrust. That means he isn't
close to the King anymore."
Naitachal nodded. "Exactly. In fact, supporting the
Prince may have been the reason he fell from grace.
But he doesn't know who's behind the troubles
between the Prince and his father, or his land and
ours. I'm certain of it."
Alaire sighed, and stood up. "What do we do now?"
"You, my young friend, must stay with Kai." Nai-
tachal considered something else, then added, "And I
believe I shall seek this Sir Jehan and pick his brains
myself."
Chapter XI
Naitachal left Alaire on the balcony. The first thing he
did after leaving the room was to see if anyone was in
the hallway who could have overheard them. He
found no one, not even a servant, and trusted his con-
versation with Captain Lyam had been a private one.
The talk with the burly swordsman had convinced
him that they were both in danger here, and he con-
templated returning to Althea for Alaire's protection.
They should have sent another ambassador. Someone
who's had experience with this kind of political mess,
he thought, stopping short of using the term "expend-
able." This situation is more dangerous than I had
ever suspected.
But to leave now would only humiliate Alaire
without accomplishing anything for Althea, and they
would be vulnerable on the road out of here. He
could imagine the ease with which the opposing fac-
tion could have them both eliminated, without
witnesses, and then be able to blame their demise
on hazards of travel: natural predators, bandits or
just simple bad luck. In many ways they were safer
here, in this pit of wolves, because any harm that
came to them would be most difficult to explain to
an enraged King Reynard.
While this didn't grant them any immunity from
hazards within the palace, it did give them some lever-
age. Provided of course Suinomen didn't declare an
all-out war against Althea. In which case, questions of
their fate would become moot.
Better to deal with it now, he thought, resigned to
the task ahead of him.
He found the huge antechamber to the King's suite,
a grand room nearly the size of the great hall, taste-
fully decorated with ornate, upholstered furniture and
several heads of dieren and other creatures of the for-
est mounted on plaques, hanging on the pale,
plastered walls. The floor, as it was in just about every
corner in the palace, was light, unfinished pine. Thirty
or so individuals of obviously high rank lounged or
talked fervently in groups, in their native language. A
raging fire burned in a large fireplace, around which
most of the courtiers gathered. Somewhere beyond
the double doors at the end of the room was the King's
reception hall, and the chamber for his private audi-
ences. It was maddening to be so close and yet be
unable to pass those doors. If he could only have used
magic, to make himself invisible....
Well, he couldn't, and that was that
No one seemed to pay any real attention to him as
he entered. Perhaps these people are too polite to
stare. He could only hope.
From the doors at the other end of the room, Johan
Pikhalas emerged. There was a graying noble with
him, and at that moment, one of the group by the fire
called something out to both of them. And Naitachal
recognized at least one thing in that hail. The name of
Sir Jehan —who was, obviously, the man Pikhalas had
just taken to speak with Archenomen.
Hmmmm. A confidant of the King. Interesting, Nai-
tachal thought. Very, very interesting.
Pikhalas spotted the Dark Elf immediately. While
Naitachal feared he would take Sir Jehan and flee
through the nearest exit, the King's aide did the
opposite. He whispered something to his compan-
ion, who nodded and regarded Naitachal evenly.
They both came over to him without hesitation.
What remarkable luck, Naitachal thought. Or is it?
"Ah, my dear Ambassador," Pikhalas offered. "How
fortunate we both are." He extended his hand and
shook Naitachal's black one warmly. "Allow me to
introduce Sir Jehan. He would like to speak to you."
Pikhalas quickly excused himself, leaving the elf
and human to fend for themselves. "I think we should
go somewhere private," Sir Jehan said, glancing fur-
tively around him. "This room is full of folk with acute
hearing and loose tongues."
Naitachal nodded solemnly, following the noble to a
smaller, adjoining library, leading off the antechamber.
It had a single window, also looking over the bay, but
this side of the palace was colder than the sunny
warmth of the balcony. On the opposite side, next to
the window, was a large set of wooden doors, with
golden handles. A dying fire threatened to sputter out
in a stove, and as Sir Jehan stoked it, heat flooded the
library.
Naitachal took this opportunity to study the man.
He was certainly no commoner, not if the ermine that
trimmed his heavy winter cloak was real and not rabbit
made up to resemble that royal fur. He dressed in
shades of gray and black silk, with tall, soft, black
leather boots, the toes tipped with silver. Though
Alaire had described a rascally sort of man, this Sir
Jehan seemed the very opposite. The gray in his hair
and beard gave him a distinguished air, which was en-
tirely at odds with the description Alaire had given.
"There is a new chill in the air," Sir Jehan said ami-
ably, turning to the elf. "I'm afraid the pleasant
weather we've had during your stay is about to come
to an abrupt halt."
"I was wondering if this was typical weather," Nai-
tachal said cautiously. "It has been rather enjoyable."
Sir Jehan waved at one of two leather chairs.
"Please, have a seat We have much to discuss."
Naitachal did so, finding the padded leather chair
unexpectedly comfortable. Sir Jehan took a similar
seat, leaned forward and studied his hands. In spite of
his fashionable dress, his dignified manner, there was
something about him that put the Dark Elf on guard.
Whatever he's hiding, he's not going to share it with
me, Naitachal thought At least, not now.
"I'm not certain how to phrase this precisely," Sir
Jehan began slowly, "so as not to offend you, sir."
"I believe we can resolve whatever differences exist
between our two kingdoms," Naitachal readily sup-
plied. "That is, of course, my mission."
A puzzled look passed briefly over Sir Jehan's face.
"No, you misunderstand. While I am happy to hear
that, that's not the situation I'm referring to."
"I see," Naitachal replied, carefully. "Then what
situation are you referring to?"
Jehan coughed. "Your assistant Alaire, I believe his
name is."
Oh gods, Naitachal thought, keeping his expression
neutral. Do they know he's the son of the King? Per-
haps I should have spirited him away when I had the
chance.
Jehan's smooth expression gave nothing away. "It is
no secret that, since last night, when you two arrived,
Alaire has become a companion of our dear Prince."
Does he suspect something shady about this? "Yes, I
believe they met shortly after dinner last night Prince
Kainemonen invited my secretary out for a night of...
light entertainment." As if you didn't know that first-
hand! Or did you think Alaire hadn't told me?
"Hmmm, I think I see what you're getting at. Such an
acquaintance, between prince and a visiting diplomat,
even the diplomat's secretary, would not seem terribly
out of place in Althea. Have we perhaps violated some
rule of social order in your fine land?"
"Oh, no," Sir Jehan said blandly. "On the contrary.
I'm grateful to see such informal mingling between
people of our two lands. Your assistant has done no
wrong by befriending the Prince, although I do under-
stand they ran into a bit of trouble in town. I heard
through the network of contacts in the tavern district
that the Prince picked a sword fight with some unruly
sailors. Regrettably, the brawl drew your assistant into
it. I'm afraid such behavior is quite common with our
young ruler-to-be, and I have to admit to some embar-
rassment over the incident."
Naitachal nodded, still wondering what the man's
point was. "Alaire may not seem to be very old, but he
is capable of handling himself. Suinomen has nothing
to apologize for, however. He went with the Prince
willingly, without my knowledge or consent Not that
he needed permission from me, you understand. . . .
He is not the envoy. I am. And as you know, young
men will have their little excitements."
"I became aware of this last night." Now Sir Jehan
produced a cool smile, and one that did not reach his
eyes. "From what I've heard, your secretary is a rather
remarkable swordsman." Sir Jehan's right eyebrow
raised at this, but he made no further comment about
Alaire's training. He continued, in a lowered voice, "If
I may, I would like to speak freely, but in confidence.
Just between the two of us, and with no diplomatic
matters involved. My concern is for your secretary,
Ambassador. Our young Prince is a bad influence.
Even though your secretary is an adult and can take
care of himself, this doesn't make him immune to cer-
tain unsavory influences in our land."
"I was under the impression that they were only out
drinking," Naitachal said in defense of both young
men. What influences?
"There may be more to it than that," Sir Jehan said,
and there was a certain sly shading to his words.
"Though I cannot be more precise. There could be
more to Kainemonen's nightly jaunts than we know.
He does this drunken tavern-hopping regularly, in the
very worst parts of town. No lady of good blood will
associate with him, even incognito."
This answered a question that had been gnawing at
the Dark Elf since he spied on Kai, Alaire and their
cluster of "maidens." Those women were of a much
lower class — no higher than servants, I should think.
I should have guessed as much.
"I still think Alaire is safe," Naitachal said. "He has
enough good sense not to become involved with women
who may ultimately seek to cause him trouble. Unless
there are other factors you haven't mentioned yet"
If Sir Jehan took offense at this, he didn't show it. "I
do hope that having a friend his own age will settle Kai
down a bit, but I'm afraid that Alaire does not have a
strong enough personality to resist Kai's depravity. If I
may speak frankly, Alaire seems to be rather young for
a diplomatic mission — even as a mere assistant"
"He is here to polish his skills under my tutelage,"
Naitachal informed him simply. "But he is very close,
very close, to the King's heart."
Sir Jehan gave him a knowing look, as if he under-
stood all too well that yes, Alaire was indeed a favorite
bastard. Good. His disguise seems to be holding.
Naitachal smiled faintly. "I agreed to take him as my
assistant largely to please King Reynard. I admit he is
a little raw, and I had hoped that some of your fine cul-
ture would rub off on him during this visit. He's never
been outside of Althea. Please forgive any uncouth
behavior you may observe in him. But I do assure you,
his personality is strong and fundamentally good, his
morals secure."
Sir Jehan sighed, and shook his head woefully.
"Kai's debauchery is the root of the troubles between
him and his father. The boy simply refuses to behave
like a civilized adult, or even a civilized child; and he
certainly refuses to behave like a prince."
Naitachal shrugged. Then why is it critical that Kai
be the Crown Prince? Certainly, if he had a younger
brother . . ." He raised an eyebrow. "The solution
seems a simple one to me."
Sir Jehan shook his head sadly. "Kainemonen's birth
was a most difficult one. The Queen is unable to be a
mother again. Disgraced, she seldom appears in pub-
lic. Unlike other kingdoms, it is not acceptable for the
King to rid himself of her, or select a — favored
by-blow. It is the way of our land."
"So, it is Kai who will inherit the throne, or nobody."
Naitachal pursed his lips in an imitation of thoughtful-
ness. "I think I'm beginning to see the problem."
Jehan waved that off as not important. "All that is
immaterial to this discussion, however. My concern is
with your assistant. His close association with Kai
could very well discredit your mission here."
This took Naitachal by surprise. Still, there was no
hint they knew Alaire's true identity.
"And why is that?" he asked, making no secret of his
surprise.
"The motives of someone who befriends a potential
problem in our kingdom are somewhat in question,"
Sir Jehan replied. "And he is your assistant. What he
does will by necessity reflect on you. I expect no
trouble, either for you or for your young man. But it
looks ... suspicious, for you, for your assistant, and for
your kingdom in general."
This, too, Naitachal was beginning to get the gist of.
Is this Sir Jehan a part of the opposing force in Suino-
men politics that Captain Lyam warned us both
about? He was not going to let this man intimidate
him. The direction their discussion was taking was
starting to sound like an attempt to threaten the mis-
sion, despite the gentle tone Sir Jehan was using.
An old family proverb came to the Dark Elf's mind.
Never try to frighten a Necromancer. Granted, he
wasn't a Necromancer any more, but still...
"Am I to understand," Naitachal returned, in an
irritated tone, "that a friend of the Prince is not an ally
of the King?"
Sir Jehan shrugged, palms upturned, a gesture
which conveyed very little to Naitachal.
Time to show some of my cards. And to prove that
Alaire confides more in me than this Sir Jehan thinks.
"I was under the impression, sir, that the Prince con-
sidered you one of his friends."
"Well," Sir Jehan began, sounding like the elf had
caught him in a subtle deception. "I do my best to heal
the rift between father and son, but there is very little
I can do when the boy refuses to reform. There's still
hope; he's still quite young. Perhaps when Kai comes
to his senses, if ever, I can do something about the
problem."
Which neither confirmed nor denied Sir Jehan's
double role in all this. Naitachal decided not to pursue
that particular question. Instead, he formulated an
appropriate cover story that would both protect
Alaire's identity and flush out some bits of information
Sir Jehan might not otherwise volunteer.
"What can one do?" Naitachal said, sadly shaking
his head. "This was not the sort of problem I had
planned to deal with on this mission. If there is any
trouble — and I trust Alaire enough to doubt that he
will become involved in anything he perceives as
counter to the interest of either our kingdom or yours
— any trouble Alaire happens to get into is his own
problem. He knows this. I rely on his good sense; it
may even be that he can exert the steadying influence
that you feel your Prince requires." Naitachal leaned
forward, as if about to impart a confidence, and con-
tinued. "My family has a long tradition of magic use.
Are you familiar with the term Necromancer?"
A flicker of recognition passed over the neutral
mask Sir Jehan was trying to maintain. Yes, he knows
exactly what I am. But will he admit it?
"I'm not familiar with the term," Sir Jehan said, his
eyes shifting to the side, indicating a lie. "I know that it
describes some sort of magician."
Naitachal smiled thinly. "Yes, a magician. A very
powerful magician. Using magic is as natural to me as
breathing air is to you. Though I would not dare to
demonstrate these abilities to you now, in this land
where it is illegal. I could raise a corpse from the dead,
or force a soul to answer my questions. And — there
are more ways available to me to destroy an adversary
than I have time to tell you, all of them painful. This
training began many, many centuries ago."
Sir Jehan gazed at him thoughtfully, without comment
Naitachal continued to smile. "There are certain
ways in which I could use these powers to defend
myself. Ways which, given the laws of your kingdom, I
could easily guarantee a long residence in your Prison
of Souls."
Naitachal watched his eyebrows raise appreciably.
"So you know of this."
Naitachal gave him a look which said plainly, What,
did you think I was deaf, blind and a fool as well? "Yes,
I do. And I would never want to find myself
imprisoned in such a place."
"You needn't worry," Sir Jehan assured him. "Our
laws apply in fact to the peasants, the lower classes,
not to those like you or me. We created the Associa-
tion to police potentially dangerous magic among the
peasants, so that they couldn't use arcane powers to
oppress each other, or as tools in a revolt." He steepled
his hands together, and put on a thoughtful expres-
sion. "And that, I fear, again puts you and your
assistant into jeopardy. Though I cannot verify this
either way, rumor has it that Kai has been actively
recruiting mages in order to overthrow his father, and
take the Crown now. This would be a tragedy of the
highest magnitude. We must prevent this at any cost.
You may find our laws regarding magic confining,
even unfair, but I assure you that there are good rea-
sons for regulating it. Surely you can see the wisdom
in these precautions."
"Of course," Naitachal said evenly. "I didn't mean to
suggest that these precautions were unnecessary. And
I surely would never do anything that would make
someone think I was willing to use my powers against
your King. That would be more than foolishness!"
"Actually, I'm glad you brought it up," Sir Jehan
said, standing. His smile was crooked, as if he could
not bring himself to produce a real smile. "This is one
of the things the King wishes to speak to you about."
He gestured grandly towards the set of double doors.
"This way, please."
When they entered the chamber beyond the dou-
ble doors, Naitachal saw King Archenomen gazing at
the barren winter countryside through a tall bay win-
dow. Framed in the pale afternoon sun, he seemed
extremely worried about something.
Sir Jehan cleared his throat. "Sire," he announced.
"May I present Ambassador Naitachal from Althea,
Envoy of King Reynard."
Eyes still fixed on the landscape beyond, he said,
"Thank you, Jehan."
Sir Jehan bowed slightly, and quietly left the chambers.
Naitachal stood boldly in the center of the floor,
wondering what could be so fascinating outside
that it would hold the King's attention. He didn't
know if he should take offense or feel
complimented by the complete lack of attention
the King was giving him.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," the King said,
turning. "Would you care for some ale, Ambassador?'
Refusing would be impolite, so he nodded and
said, "It would please me, indeed, Your Majesty."
Warily, he took one of three heavy wood chairs, set
about in a semi-circle. The throne faced him
squarely, a tall, velvet-upholstered artifact raised on
a platform that would put the King's toes about eye
level when sitting.
The King turned and regarded Naitachal with
some visible apprehension, then forced a smile. A
servant appeared with two large steins of ale,
offered one to the Dark Elf, than served the other
to the King. As Naitachal took his, he suppressed a
grimace. He did not care for ale, and this was a
heavy, bitter brew.
Still, the King's wish was an order. Naitachal relaxed
and tried the ale, wondering briefly if it had been poi-
soned. Since he had a choice of either of the steins, he
decided this was unlikely.
The King drank from his stein and seated himself in
one of the other smaller chairs next to Naitachal, for-
going the use of the ostentatious throne. Though he
wore yesterday's purple robe, his clothing seemed
rumpled; shadows lurked under his eyes and stubble
stood out on his tired face. Stress lines showed on his
forehead. Either the King is ill, or he is worried sick
over something. Naitachal drank his warm ale and
tried to look composed.
"I come directly to the point," the King said. "It has
come to my attention lately that there is considerable
renegade magic going on among the peasants. There
are suggestions that some of these magicians are con-
nected somehow with your land."
Oh? This was a new accusation, and it baffled Nai-
tachal. Now what? he wondered, thinking this might
be smoke, sent out to conceal the real issue, whatever
it might be.
"If there are magicians practicing magic covertly in
Suinomen," Naitachal began with an even voice, "I am
hardly in a position to know of it. Though my kind
does have a long history of the practice of mage-craft,
I have carefully avoided this practice since arriving
here. And you, sir, have never sent any communica-
tion to my King making any suggestion that such
renegades are troubling your land. What, exactly, is
the link to Althea you speak of?"
"Nothing... specific," the King admitted. "And I am
not accusing you of anything. It does raise some issues,
which I would like to discuss with the understanding
that we intend no offense. It is most opportune that you
are here to negotiate. It saves us the trouble, and time, of
sending an ambassador to your land."
At the mention of the word negotiate, Naitachal's
ears stood straight up. Are we finally going to discuss
these "war threats"?
The King stirred restlessly. "This mage-craft was
once a threat to our kingdom, many years ago. That
is when we created the Swords of the Magicians,
and began policing the land of unauthorized magic.
Since then, things have been quiet here. Until
lately. There hasn't been much in the way of travel
between our two kingdoms, but in the last half year
what little there has been has increased twofold.
Perhaps it is no coincidence that the unauthorized
magic using has increased as well."
Naitachal saw the King's point, and he didn't like it
at all. He's trying to blame Althea for the failure of his
policies, for his inability to stifle magic in what is obvi-
ously a land rich with those who have the abilities, if
not the training, to practice the art.
But the King's next words took him entirely by sur-
prise. "I think it would be a great benefit to both our
lands if you recognized the superior policing ability of
the Association and permit them into your kingdom. It
is clear to me that your land is the source of this
scourge, and if you let our Association in, for the
express purpose of dealing with mages, we can solve
this problem once and for all."
The King gazed at him hopefully, obviously finding
nothing wrong with the request.
Naitachal stared at him for a long, long time. The
request appalled him so much that he had to reassess
everything he'd learned about Suinomen and its king.
Did I hear that correctly? Fearful of magic. Suspicious
of his son. Influenced by unknown political forces. Per-
haps completely misled about Althea. He thinks we
want to clean up magic in our own kingdom? Badly
enough to let a foreign force in, from a country whose
intentions are in serious question? He really believes
this is a reasonable request!
"I see," Naitachal said, forcing a most urbane man-
ner in spite of his desire to demonstrate a little high
level Bardic Magic and wipe the King's mind clean of
even the shadow of such an idea. "Of course, I am in
no position to grant such a request It might be a very
good idea, after all, and I will certainly inform the
King of your request."
King Archenomen's brow furrowed, as if he had
expected immediate agreement. "But surely, you can
understand the need..."
Naitachal made a conciliatory gesture. "Of course I
see how important this is to you. But you must under-
stand, this would mean ridding Althea of most
non-humans, elves, fairies, Arachnia as well as the
human mages. I'm not even certain this is possible;
the non-humans occupy much territory within our
borders, and have established themselves as indis-
pensable to the commerce and prosperity of our land.
You see, non-humans simply will not allow humans to
regulate magic. Magic is the core of their existence. To
take it away would cause serious political problems for
our King."
"I would have expected the King of Althea to send a
stronger soul to discuss matters of state," Archenomen
said, looking disappointed.
"It is not a matter of strength," Naitachal said.
"Only of prudence. Within our government we have
many non-humans, in positions of power. Non-
humans such as myself."
"Oh, yes, that's right," the King replied, clearly
annoyed, and shaking his head as if he simply had not
seen the sable skin and pointed ears of the being right
in front of him. "You are a Dark Elf, aren't you?"
Is he a half-wit? Or is his mind going? This is
incredible! Naitachal schooled his expression to give
no hint of his thoughts. "To impose such rules would
be, at the very least, an insult to many powerful
beings. But the matter isn't up to me."
Archenomen's face brightened. "That's right, it's
not. Relay the message to the King, if you would,
please. I think we will be sending our own ambassa-
dors along soon anyway, to make certain he gets it."
The King stood, clearly ending the audience. "You
may leave."
Naitachal immediately rose to his feet, bowed and
backed himself out; grateful the discussion was over,
and proud of himself for not converting the King to a
pile of ash.
Naitachal returned to their room hoping to find
Alaire, so he could discuss this new — and highly dis-
turbing — information with his protege. The boy is in
more danger than I suspected, he admitted to himself,
guiltily. Sending him home now would be even more
serous.
Dark Elf realized as he entered the room that
he had got about as far as he was going to get with the
King. Reynard should have sent a human, he admitted
glumly. Only a human can make any progress now.
The monarch of Suinomen was far more phobic about
magic than he'd ever imagined, and if Archenomen
ever learned that he and Alaire were Bards, it could be
a catalyst for war. It seemed almost certain now that
they were looking for an excuse for one anyway; that
was the only rational explanation for such an outra-
geous request. Surely that act the King had put on was
only that — an act. Surely he could not be so stupid,
senile or mad enough to believe King Reynard would
spend a single second considering such an outrageous
idea!
Sending the Swords of the Magicians into Althea —
no, surely no one could be that mad. I do believe it is
time for us both to find a way to leave this dreadful
place, Naitachal decided. If we left now, we might take
them by surprise. Yes. We will be on the road, headed
back towards Althea, tonight.
"Alaire?" Naitachal called softly, as he closed the
door behind him. He found only an empty room.
"Good gods," he muttered, picking up a note on the
bed.
Your Darkness,
I have gone out again with you-know-who. I
promise to be careful. Don't worry about me. And
don't stay up; it may be late.
Alaire.
Gazing at the note, Naitachal began making soft,
strangling noises.
Chapter XII
While Naitachal went off on his diplomatic search for
Sir Jehan, Alaire returned to their room to catch a few
hours of his lost sleep. The drink with the Prince's
bevy of beauties had made him sleepy, and this
seemed as good a time as any to catch up on some
rest. Just before he fell into deep slumber, he won-
dered belatedly if he had remembered to lock the
door or not----
Alaire woke to someone shaking him by the shoul-
ders. "Wake up, sluggard!" Kai shouted in his ear.
"We've got to go out! Hurry! We're losing time!"
The boy roused him with such intensity in his voice
that he struggled out of the tentacles of sleep in a
panic, wondering what emergency was upon them.
"Wha—" Alaire managed, feeling about for a
weapon.
Kai let go of his shoulders, and laughed sardonically
at the expression on his face. "Oh, relax," Kai told him.
"If I had known it was so hard to wake you up I would
have been in earlier."
Alaire finally focused on Kai, who sat on the edge of
the huge bed. He wore a new outfit of court clothing,
topped with the embroidered red cloak, but he still
looked like he'd thrown his clothes on in a hurry.
"We're going into town tonight."
"Oh, not again," Alaire started to say, but as he sat
up, he realized that Kai was not in a good mood.
Sullen, stormy, perhaps even angry; there was nothing
teasing or playful about Kai at the moment. "What's
wrong, Kai?" he asked, completely awake now.
"Sir Jehan told me I should —" Kai hesitated, then
shook his head, his jaw tensing. "Nothing," he finally
appended "Nothing at all. I'm going to go get drunk.
You can come if you want to."
He flung himself off the bed and started out the
door.
"Wait a minute," Alaire said, getting up.
Kai paused, and looked back over his shoulder. "You
coming?" he asked hopefully.
"Well, I —" Alaire shrugged.
"Good," Kai interrupted. "Bring your harp. You can
cheer me up with it."
"— guess I am," Alaire finished.
They took the carriage to the edge of the tavern dis-
trict, under cloudy skies that grew darker by the
moment. Tonight's driver seemed sober, so the ride
into the heart of town wasn't as exciting as the pre-
vious evening's. The tavern they ended up in was a
notch or two below the other places they'd gone to; it
took them a moment to find chairs and a table that
hadn't been damaged in a brawl. Even so, the night
was still young, and according to Kai the very best of
the establishment's stock hadn't run dry yet. It
appeared that this was the only thing that cheered Kai
up — a steady supply of liquor, the prospect of total
oblivion.
All he wants out of life is out, Alaire thought. He
wondered if going with Kai had been a good idea.
Now he felt as if he were inadvertently aiding the
Prince in his quest for that oblivion.
This evening's poison was not ale or wine, as had
been the choice the night before. This place, The
Deadman's Drunk, its name burned into a tombstone-
shaped wooden sign above the door, served only the
hardest of liquors.
"They distill aakaviit from a tuber that grows wild
in the hills," Kai explained easily as he downed small
glasses of the stuff. He drank it like water. Alaire
couldn't understand it. He stared at his own small
glass. A single sip had set his mouth and throat on fire.
He eyed the burning candle between them nervously.
This is almost pure alcohol! he thought.
Now he wished he hadn't brought his harp. There
had been some heated discussion over taking it along,
but Alaire had finally relented, thinking that perhaps
Kai wouldn't drink as much if he did. The harp was
the most important possession he owned, and here it
was, exposed to danger in this wretched place.
Though wrapped in a thick canvas bag, and looking
like a random sack of possessions, it would not fare
well in a fight. He placed it so a bottle of aakaviit, if
spilled, wouldn't drench it. The potent fluid would
probably eat right through the finish.
He had hoped the liquor would loosen Kai's tongue
a bit. That cryptic sentence about Sir Jehan had him
wondering just what the man had said to Kai, and if
they would see him out again tonight. For additional
clues Alaire had suggested they go to the tavern where
Sir Jehan had been last night. Seeing them together
might yield useful information. But Kai had insisted
that place would be closed so early in the afternoon;
The Deadman's Drunk was going to be their destina-
tion for now, and when Kai started to get a little testy
about it, Alaire shut up and sat back in the coach.
Kai had confined his discussion to trivial matters;
the good time he had with the twins, this year's grape
crop, which had been poor, and the turning weather.
When they had left the carriage and started walking,
Alaire noticed the air had become considerably colder
than he remembered it being last night A biting cold
singed his nostrils. Breath clouded visibly before
them. Snow fell lightly as they reached this place; Kai
predicted it would get worse.
"I love getting drunk when it snows!" he said. "Any
bad weather. Thunderstorms, floods, as long as I'm
not in it, and snowstorms. Don't ask me why. Maybe
it's the hint of anxiety in the air that makes it exciting!"
Snow was not unusual back at Fenrich, but it rarely
fell early. It snowed enough to accumulate about a
month before midwinter, and usually melted off by
spring equinox. But Suinomen was further north, and
the shift in temperature had been rather drastic this
evening.
"How much does it snow up here?" Alaire asked.
"Oh, I guess it will probably be waist-high by morn-
ing," Kai said casually. "Why?"
"What?"
Kai laughed, finished his glass of aakaviit. "You act
like you've never seen snow before."
"Well, I have," Alaire said, proudly. "But not waist-
high!" He tried to imagine what it would look like.
"How do the roofs stay up? Don't they collapse under
the weight of the snow?"
Which sent Kai into another round of laughter.
"Whatever gave you that idea? What are your roofs
made of down there, thatch?"
Alaire frowned. "Some of them are."
"Of course," Kai said, as suddenly subdued as he
had been roused to laughter.
Alaire was more concerned with the effect the snow
was going to have on the state of the streets. "Well
anyway, if it's really going to snow that deep tonight,
perhaps we should make it an early evening?"
"Not a bad idea," Kai said, but his mischievous
smirk indicated he didn't take the idea very seriously.
"But it it gets too bad we can always stay at an inn.
'Not exactly fit for royalty,' as his highness Sir Jehan
would say, but do I look like I care? Gods no! I've
passed out many a night in places far worse than that!"
Alaire's ears pricked at the mention of the noble-
man's name. Yes? And? He waited for the boy to go
on.
A fight broke out behind them, but Kai remained
oblivious to it. Alaire watched the two combatants
who, from the little he understood of the screaming
imprecations, fought over a bottle of aakaviit.
Kai had ordered another, and at that moment the
barkeep scurried over, and most apologetically
explained that the gentlemen behind them were fight-
ing over the last bottle of aakaviit.
Kai turned to regard the fight, now interested in the
outcome. As the two men struggled with the bottle,
Kai reached for the hilt of his sword, but didn't draw
it. The barkeep paled when he noticed the weapon,
and promptly vanished.
Alaire thought he was going to get sick. The sight of
the men fighting over the bottle, and Kai apparently
willing to kill for it, was a little too much.
"Here," Alaire said. "Have the rest of my glass."
There was still a half glass left; the little Alaire drank
went right to his head, so he had stopped drinking.
Though mildly intoxicated, he hoped he still had pos-
session of his fighting skills. One of us needs to stay at
least partially sober, he worried. Kai's not going to be
worth much, if he keeps this up. He's probably not
worth much right now. I've never seen anyone drink
as much as he can and still walk.
The fight continued; Kai watching the two men
avidly, his tongue licking his lips as if he were hungry.
Suddenly there was a crash, signaling the demise of
the bottle of aakaviit as it fell to the floor. But the fight
continued; the two men, now driven to a rage by the
loss of the bottle, went directly for each others'
throats. A third man had crawled into the area of the
affray and was trying to drink the spilled stuff from the
floor.
Alaire wanted out of there, badly — but how to per-
suade Kai? The Prince seemed fascinated by the fight,
by the drunk lapping up liquor from the floor —
Then, the fighters knocked over a candle, which fell
to the floor, igniting the aakavitt with an audible
woooooopf.
The stuff was as flammable as Alaire had suspected.
A roaring fire spread across the floor, away from them,
licking the cheap, wooden furniture with fiery blue
tongues.
People panicked and ran out of front and rear exits.
Somewhere, amid the flames, a man screamed. The
bartender beat at the flames with a rag; he only made
them spread faster.
The fire was spreading, quickly; too quickly. Soon
the flames would block the exits!
"Come on, Kai! Lets get out of here!" Alaire
shouted, grabbing Kai's arm and tugging him upright.
"Oh, awright," Kai said, sullenly, as if Alaire was try-
ing to get him to leave a bit of high entertainment
before it was over.
Alaire grabbed the harp's canvas bag with one hand
and Kai's arm with the other and led him through the
press of bodies to the front exit. As they reached the
door, he glanced behind him to see if anyone else was
trapped in there. The place was empty, except for the
two original combatants, still locked in struggle, sil-
houetted by the rising flames.
Forget them, he thought. Let's get back to the palace
before we're snowed in down here.
He turned — and blinked in surprise. Snow.
Gods — Kai wasn't joking about the snow! A thick,
white blanket had wrapped itself over the tavern
district, and huge, coin sized flakes dropped in
sheets. He looked down, and saw he was standing
ankle-deep in the stuff. He stumbled out of the
doorway, still towing Kai, and took shelter in
another doorway across the street from the bar.
People in the street began to shout now, as it
became apparent to the passersby that one of the
buildings was on fire. Smoke poured out of the front
door. The barkeep ran about helplessly, slipping in the
snow; no one seemed to be doing anything about the
fire except watching.
Suddenly Kai seemed to notice the snow. "All
right!" the boy whooped, running into the thick white-
ness. He promptly made a ball out of the mush and
threw it at Alaire, ignoring the fire licking out of the
doorway behind him.
At that moment a number of men appeared, with a
purposeful air to them. They formed a human chain
and began passing buckets of water to throw on the fire.
It occurred to Alaire that maybe they should help —
Then again, maybe that wouldn't be a good idea.
Kai was still whooping and playing in the snow, and
Alaire didn't think there was any likelihood of getting
him to do something as responsible as putting out a
fire. No. Let's get out of here, while we have a chance.
The snow still looks shallow enough for the carriage to
make it back to the palace.
He followed Kai, who slipped and slid down the
street, laughing like a fool. "Kai, you know, maybe we
should go back to the palace?"
"Naw," he said over his shoulder, and hiccuped.
"Still early."
Alaire persisted. "But getting back while we can ...
don't you think..."
Kai muttered something about the next place, and
started off down the narrow street without him.
Though he walked fairly well, it was clear to Alaire he
was very drunk. He started rambling on to himself, as
if Alaire was standing next to him.
The situation was starting to anger him. Why
should I care if he cares for no one but himself? Do I
really need to go along with him? He resisted an urge
to start walking back to the palace by himself, after
taking a few steps in that direction. I don't know the
way that well, and in this snow, everything looks dif-
ferent. And, it's cold! Maybe I'd be better off in a
tavern somewhere. Bound to be afire burning. That
way I can keep warm. And keep an eye on Kai.
He groaned, knowing he had talked himself into
being Kai's keeper once again.
Alaire scrambled after the Prince, cursing his foot-
ing, and taking excruciating care not to slip and fall on
his harp. The sun had set by now, and torchlights and
lanterns again provided the only illumination. Foot-
traffic had diminished, and now only a few people
braved the snow.
"So where are we going now?" Alaire said irritably.
He clutched the harp tightly, as if holding it closer
would shut out some of the cold. Kai's coat was wide
open, and he wore no warm hat, as Alaire did; evi-
dently, as drunk as he was, he didn't feel the cold.
"Oh, let's try The Dead Dragon Inn again," he said,
matter-of-factly. They probably won't throw us out"
The clamor surrounding the fire faded, and a new,
muffled silence fell about them. In spite of his annoy-
ance with Kai and with himself, and his discomfort,
the snow fascinated Alaire; he'd never seen this much
falling at one time, so suddenly, and with flakes this
large. They fell about the two of them in swirls, land-
ing on his face, his clothes. He stuck his tongue out
and caught one. The large flake melted instantly in the
warmth of his mouth, reminding him how thirsty he
was for simple, plain water. Maybe at The Dead
Dragon Inn, I can get some, he thought. After all, Kai
drinks enough for both of us.
He hoped they would reach the place soon. The
cold was beginning to eat through his clothing.
He heard something behind them, and turned just
in time to see a dark figure vanish into a shadow.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran
up his spine, and he felt for the hilt of his sword, sling-
ing his harp over his back. Saying nothing to Kai, who
babbled something to himself in his native language,
he continued the slow trudge through the snow, keep-
ing his ears open for another telltale noise. When it
came, he knew for certain they were being followed.
He didn't turn to look this time, but as he listened, he
heard the same footsteps trying to match theirs, using
the noise they were making as cover.
Maybe it's one of Sir Jehan's men, keeping tabs on
the Prince, he thought hopefully, but the prospect
didn't comfort him as much as he thought it would
I'd better say something. He's still a good fighter,
even if he's drunk.
He whispered to Kai, "I think we're being fol-
lowed."
Kai glanced up, and shrugged. But in spite of the
bravado, Kai acted a little more wary. Then, finally, he
whispered back, "How many?"
"One, at least Maybe more." Was that a second set
of footsteps, or echoes of our own? The effect of snow
on sound was maddening.
Two figures jumped out in front of them, swords
drawn. Kai hissed as he drew his weapon, clumsily,
and staggered backwards.
Alaire's nerves were already keyed up, and he was
ready. His sword out, he went after the closest of the
two and closed for the attack. His opponent seemed
surprised at the aggressive tactics. Figured I'd be
drunk, too? Alaire thought briefly as their swords
engaged.
Within moments he knew that these were no aver-
age cutpurses. These are professional killers! Alaire
thought in dismay, taking in their black clothing, the
scarves wrapped about their faces to hide their identi-
ties. Why they would be wearing black escaped him;
they stood out against the snow. Unless the snow
caught them by surprise too.
Swords flashed through the falling snow, and soon
Alaire was separated from Kai and the other assassin.
Alaire heard them, somewhere behind them, clashing
away, and didn't like the idea of not being able to see
anything but his current opponent. And what of the
men who had been behind them? Where were they?
Street-fighting meant street-tactics. He managed to
distract the fighter for a moment; his blade lashed out,
nicking the man's wrist. Bright ruby-red spots
appeared on the snow beneath him. First blood.
The assassin snarled an evident curse in a lan-
guage he'd never heard before. Alaire feinted, and
parried twice, pushing the killer near a torch on a
rock wall. In the flickering light he saw the man's
eyes, and the dark, olive skin around them. His wrist
bled brightly into the falling snow, and Alaire knew
his wound must be a great liability to him; he didn't
change hands, as Alaire would have done in the
same situation. Evidently his teacher had not been
as good as Naitachal.
Alaire stepped back, saw an opening, and lunged.
Metal pierced flesh with more difficulty than
expected, reminding Alaire he hadn't sharpened his
blade since the fight in The Dead Dragon. Even so,
his sword found a rich target, and as he withdrew his
steel, blood followed it.
The assassin groaned, dropped his blade, and
pressed a hand over the wound. The stain spread
beneath him as the snow captured the fresh blood.
The man stared at him, his eyes hollow in the
torchlight, then staggered off into the dark and snow.
In a moment, he was lost to sight.
Alaire turned and looked for Kai; there was nothing
to see but snow. Then, around a corner, he heard
blades clashing. He ran to the sound, staggered as his
foot slipped on the fresh snow, and found the two next
to another building, their arena brightly lit by street
torch. The tip of Kai's blade was broken, giving the
assassin the advantage. The boy's face was a mask of
pure terror; he knew he was in serious trouble.
And Alaire was a good twenty feet away.
He shouted, hoping to distract the killer, but the
man ignored him.
As Alaire rushed at the assassin, the man lunged,
piercing Kai in the abdomen. The boy screamed in
pain and fell back into the snow.
The killer looked up, apparently satisfied with his
work, then ran off.
Alaire scrambled to Kai's side; he was lying face up
in the snow, still waving his sword and moaning.
Alaire gently deflected the weapon with his own
and took it from his hand.
He knelt over Kai, calling his name.
But the boy just stared blankly, his skin now the
color of the snow around him. A red stain spread over
his tunic and shirt, but Alaire saw no wound. He
pulled the slick fabric of his shirt up, revealing a neat
puncture next to Kai's navel. The wound bled a thin,
pulsing river. A gut wound. The worst.
He's going to die.
Kai opened his mouth to speak, but he was already
too weak to say anything. He was going to die.
Unless —
No! his mind screamed. Without really thinking, he
began looking for his harp. He ran, staggering, back to
where he thought it would be. Where is it? Did some-
one take it? he thought, just as his eyes fell on the
instrument. He grabbed the canvas bag and rushed
back to Kai.
Alaire ripped the bag open, with stiff fingers; his
heart pounding frantically. Kai's eyes glazed; the
thin plume of breath over his nostrils lessening with
every moment. Hot tears coursed down Alaire's
cheeks. He fought the urge to scream, curse, moan
in helplessness —
Don't think of that. Don't think of anything. Just the
magic.. .just the power...
He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and
started to play.
The strings were out of tune, the music sour, his fin-
gers cold and numb. But he played anyway, ignoring
the one broken string. He reached for the only song
he knew that might work, a short tune Naitachal had
composed when one of their favorite horses had suf-
fered an attack from a pack of wolves. The horse had
been near death —
Like Kai —
Bardic Magic had healed it, had saved its life.
As Alaire played the tune from memory, his fingers
loosened up, and the notes came easier. He ran
through the song once, looked down at Kai. He
remained still, even peaceful, in the. snow. Then, with
one spastic motion, the boy exhaled a single breath.
Then nothing.
The Magic had failed.
"No!" Alaire screamed. Tears streamed down his
face, blurring his vision. He felt an empty space form
in the center of his chest, and as he stared at Kai's life-
less face, the space grew larger. He choked back a sob.
Snow began to collect on Kai's face, instead of melt-
ing, as it had only moments before.
Alaire wept, unable to help himself, unable to stop.
He held the harp loosely, until it was ready to slip out
of his hands. Then, suddenly, his Master's words ech-
oed in his head:
The essence of Bardic Magic is the ability to make,
and unmake.
To unmake Death — and make Life?
He reached deeper, into his soul, for the power.
Willing his arms and hands to move, he began to play
the song over a fourth time, automatically, but this
time his mind and heart focused on something else
altogether.
His mind's eye followed tendrils of life-source
downwards, to the ground. Here he found vast pools
of untapped power, seldom used in this land, just
beneath the surface. Yearning to be released. He
imagined Kai's wound, closing itself, healing the injury
the assassins blade had rendered; the tiny folds of tis-
sue, reassembling, knitting, binding, sealing the blood
vessels, cauterizing them with light. Then the new
blood, slowly filling his veins, restoring what had been
lost. At some point, he stopped playing Naitachal's
tune and began a new one of his own, one that seemed
to fit the magic he was weaving, that complimented
the interplay of power and Power....
When Alaire opened his eyes, he found himself and
Kai enveloped in a cloud of bright stars, points of light
that were pulsating with the harp's music. The
untuned strings played a haunting melody that echoed
in the drifts of light, of green, blue, red, weaving a
spell of life.
The music stopped, interrupted by a shrill, rasping
cough.
Kai!
Kai inhaled sharply as his eyes widened with fear,
and his lungs struggled for air. He gasped again, claw-
ing at the stained snow with one bloodied hand as the
other reached for a sword that wasn't there.
Alaire had a moment to exalt — a single moment of
joy at his accomplishment.
Then the harp fell from Alaire's hands as a wave of
exhaustion seized him and dragged him down into
darkness, while stars of a totally different kind clouded
his fading vision. Vaguely aware of someone calling his
name, he fell into nothingness.
Chapter XIII
Naitachal flung the note back on the bed. Why did he
have to leave now, of all times? In the moment it took
for the note to sink in, his annoyance darkened to fear.
Something was wrong, something very wrong...
He cursed Alaire, cursed himself, cursed their luck
— and most of all, cursed the Prince.
Soon, it would be time for supper, but if he
attended, the rituals of dinner would trap him for gods
knew how long. He had little time to waste now.
Wearied by the situation, the Dark Elf sat down
heavily on a chair, rubbing his face. As he sat, ponder-
ing the circumstances, he had a terrible premonition
about Kai and this latest venture into the tavern dis-
trict—
And not about Kai alone; he sensed that Alaire was
in danger too. To probe this further he would have to
invoke powers that were illegal here, and he wasn't
willing to jeopardize the diplomatic mission or his
freedom by bringing the Swords of the Magicians
down on them.
I must see Captain Lyam immediately. If anyone
can help me in this mess, he can. He might even know
where they went,
Poking his head out the door, he glanced down the
hallway. Palace guests and noblemen filed toward the
great dining hall. If he left now to look for Lyam he
might be dragged into a nonsensical conversation
before he even got to the stairs. No, oh no. And going
somewhere besides the hall, in view of everyone, would
attract unwanted attention.
Then he sighed. There is, of course, another way
out of the room besides the door.
When he opened the window, a biting wind
ripped into the room, reminding him to don some-
thing a little warmer than his usual black cloak. He
put on a thick dieren coat and a pair of flexible
leather gloves, and climbed over the sill to a narrow
ledge along the castle wall, and closed the window
behind him.
Their room was only three floors up, but ice had
formed on the ledge, and the wind was particularly
stiff out here. He had second thoughts about this
rather foolhardy venture, but decided to continue.
Wasn't he an elf? Didn't he have twice the agility and
strength of any human born?
Wasn't he a complete idiot?
Two doors north, one floor up ... a corner suite. He
peered up through the gathering darkness. That must
be it up there. The only room with a light. Gods, I
hope he's there.
He found a section of the ledge above him that had
no ice, and pulled himself up, a move which would be
difficult for most humans.
His muscles complained bitterly at him; elven he
might well be, but he was not accustomed to gallivant-
ing about on ledges in the middle of snowstorms. He
swore, gritted his teeth, and forced himself up and
onto the ledge —
He lay there for a moment, panting with effort.
But that was the worst part; in moments he was
looking in the window of Captain Lyam's room. A
warm room, with a fire raging in the stove. The Cap-
tain was sitting at a desk, with his back to the window.
Good thing I'm not an assassin, Naitachal thought
as he let himself in through the window.
"Please close the window behind you, Ambassador,"
Lyam said politely. He hadn't bothered to turn
around. "There is a rather stiff chill in the air tonight."
The Dark Elf stepped down to the pine floor and
closed the windows behind him. "I hope this is a dis-
creet enough entrance, Captain," Naitachal said, lazily,
impressed despite himself with the Captains compo-
sure and keen senses.
Lyam rose as soon as he stepped into the room, and
offered him a cup of heated, spiced cider. Naitachal
accepted it with a sigh of gratitude and went to stand
beside the stove for a moment
Elven or not, it had been cold enough out there to
freeze the ears off a marble horse.
But as he took his place beside the fire, he saw that
what he had thought was Lyam's calm nonchalance
was something of a mask. The Captain was obviously
concerned about something. Naitachal had a shrewd
notion he knew what it was, too.
"Kai has vanished again," the Captain said, abruptly.
"Jehan informed me — after Kai ran off — that he
had set a servant to watch him. I sent a watcher after
the watcher. My own man just sent me back word that
he found Jehan's 'keeper' dead, with blood spilled in
such a pattern as suggests an attack. Because of the
amount of blood, we suspect a second person died."
"The Prince?" Naitachal asked, his mouth going dry
with fear. He remembered his earlier premonition —
Lyam shrugged. "We don't know. The Swords of the
Association are searching the tavern district now."
What? Naitachal stared at the Captain. "Why the
Swords?"
The Captain returned the stare, and the Dark Elf
had the impression he was looking for signs of
deception. "Someone, probably an unlicensed mage,
worked some powerful magic in that area. Sir Jehan
dispatched the Swords to track the perpetrator down.
Then they discovered traces of that same magic at the
scene of the killing." The Captain shook his head sadly.
"As we speak, the entire force is searching for the mage
responsible."
Naitachal's gaze didn't waver. "And if they find the
source, what then?"
"They will arrest him. Or both of them." Lyam
stared at the Dark Elf broodingly. "Mark you, they do
not know who the mage is at the moment, but if it was
your apprentice, the traces will still be upon him. They
will charge Kai with treason."
Naitachal's knees felt a little weak. The Dark Elf
seated himself in a chair, opposite Lyam.
Captain Lyam continued. "Is there anything you
would like to share with me?"
Naitachal maintained his mask of calm. "I know
nothing of the incident. However, I returned to our
room to find a note, left by my secretary. Apparently
Alaire went with the Prince for another night on the
town. To the tavern district, I believe he said."
Lyam nodded. "This we already know. Paavo, the
Seneschal, saw them both getting into a carriage a few
hours ago. The driver let them off near the district."
Lyam leaned forward, his voice lowered. "This discus-
sion is in complete confidence."
Naitachal nodded warily. "I appreciate that. But if
you suspect that Alaire used magic to kill, I really
must object. That is not the sort of training I have
given him, nor is it something he's sought on his
own. He's quite capable of defending himself with
the sword."
Lyam's mouth tensed. "As I am well aware. No, I
don't think he used magic to kill. But someone used a
powerful spell, after the killing, or killings. They found
only one body."
Naitachal frowned, shook his head. "Is there any-
thing to connect either young man with the killing or
the magic use? Could they be somewhere in a tavern,
idling time away?"
Lyam said warningly, "The Association knows that
Kai and Alaire were in the vicinity. An agent saw them
at the site of a tavern fire tonight. The Association
thinks the Prince and his companion were involved."
Naitachal grimaced. "This is — not good."
"Perhaps it's not as bad as you think," Lyam replied.
"I'm the only one who knows you're a Bard, since I
haven't shared this information with anyone. Your
secret is safe with me. My main concern is how this
incident will discredit the Prince. The King believes
Kainemonen is raising a secret cadre of mages to take
the throne. Though these are only rumors, men close
to him are making sure the King believes them."
Naitachal stared off for a moment, his eyes fixed on
the blazing fire. Could Alaire have performed power-
ful Bardic Magic? I wouldn't have thought that
possible at this stage of his training. Why would he,
unless there were no other choice?
"Yes?" Lyam said cautiously, apparently reading his
expression. "You had a thought?"
"I had a talk with Sir Jehan this afternoon," Nai-
tachal replied. "He seemed convinced Kai had designs
on the throne, using the same means you just
described. He was very eager for me to believe that
anyone who befriended the Prince would not be con-
sidered a friend of the throne. I had the feeling that he
would have done anything to persuade me to order
Alaire to stay away from the Prince."
"Of course," Lyam said dismissively. "They weren't
expecting you two to come along, and they certainly
were not expecting an outsider to befriend Kai. If Sir
Jehan is behind this, he would use whatever powers of
persuasion he had to divert your attention from Kai."
Something else was nagging Naitachal. "What
about these so-called 'keepers'? Is this usual? Alaire
never mentioned bodyguards when they went out last
night."
Lyam shook his head. "When I say 'keeper' I'm only
quoting Sir Jehan. More likely they were spies, looking
for more stories to bring back to the King about Kai.
They probably stayed well out of sight, hoping to
observe without being observed"
"And if Kai discovered their presence, would this
prompt Kai to eliminate them?" It was a valid ques-
tion, or so Naitachal thought. "Could this be why they
found only one dead man? Could Kai have wounded
one and killed the other?" That would be better news
for Alaire — and it would point to someone other than
Alaire as the unlicensed mage.
Captain Lyam stood, towering above Naitachal, and
began pacing back and forth, past the window. For
such a large man, he made very little noise. In his uni-
form, he was an even more imposing figure than he
had been at their first meeting, though Naitachal felt
more protected than threatened. "He would do no
such thing," the Captain said, after apparently giving it
some thought first.
"I meant no insult"
Lyam waved the half-apology aside. "None was
taken. I appreciate your candor. You have been
straightforward with me from the beginning, and I
thank you for that. And I admit, on the surface, and
especially to someone whose opinion has been colored
by minions like Sir Jehan, that is precisely what it does
look like. The King is convinced a revolt is at the
gates."
Naitachal remembered that supper was being
served, and stood. "In view of these new circum-
stances, I think it would be wise of me to attend
supper. My absence would be missed, may even be
seen as suspicious."
Though how I'm to even pretend to eat, with my
stomach in anxious knots —
He started for the door.
"Before you leave, I would like to mention one
thing," Lyam said. "I believe that this was a trap, per-
haps a trap gone wrong, and I think you will eventually
be implicated in this mess, if you aren't already. Please
be careful. And remember: you were never here."
Naitachal bowed, and left the Captain to his own
anxieties.
The Dark Elf arrived at the dining hall in time for
supper, amid a sea of curious stares, some openly hos-
tile. So. My reputation precedes me. At least, the
reputation someone wants me to have. Pikhalas saw
him from across the room and scurried over to inter-
cept him.
"There you are," the timid, frail man said, clutching
a small felt hat in both hands, nervously twisting it into
an unrecognizable lump of fabric. "We've been look-
ing all over for you. You weren't in your room, and we
were beginning to wonder."
"Oh, about what? Is something wrong?" Naitachal
inquired innocently.
"A situation has developed," Pikhalas said, reluc-
tantly. "The King is having a private supper tonight,
and he extends his warmest invitation to join him."
"By all means," Naitachal said cheerfully, stretching
his mouth in a smile. "Lead the way."
Adjoining the great dining hall was a smaller, inti-
mate dining room with a long marble table in the
center. King Archenomen sat at the head, with Sir
Jehan sitting on his right. A score of others sat to either
side, with one empty place still at the King's left Pik-
halas showed Naitachal to this seat Posted at either
end of the room was a burly guard.
As Naitachal approached the table, a hush fell over
the gathering of nobles, and all eyes fixed on him as he
bowed deeply to the King, nodded politely to the rest,
then seated himself at the table.
"Good evening, Your Majesty," he said, as urbanely
as possible. Was I supposed to bow when I entered as
well as just before I sat? Oh well, too late now. "I
understand there is a problem of some kind tonight I
trust this will not interfere with the enjoyment of the
meal and the conversation." What am I supposed to
know? Nothing. Nothing at all.
The meal had already begun, and once Naitachal
seated himself, everyone resumed eating. Sir Jehan cast
surreptitious looks in his direction as he gnawed on a
piece of cooked bird. Its huge skeletal carcass made a
grim centerpiece, which fit Naitachal's mood, though
not the mood of cheer he was attempting to project
As a servant poured him wine, the King said, after a
long pause, "Where is your secretary tonight?"
Naitachal didn't even blink. "I understand he is out
with the Prince again," he said. "He left me a note to
that effect — and truly, I did not expect to see him
here, the snow is falling so thickly. I fully expected him
to urge the Prince to take some private rooms in a
good inn until the weather clears —"
He blinked, as if suddenly realizing that the King
and Sir Jehan were gazing at him as if his words held
important secrets. "Good heavens — your most effi-
cient liaison informed me something has come up.
This 'situation' wouldn't involve the Prince and my
secretary, would it?"
"It would," Sir Jehan said suddenly. His look was
venomous. "Our agents found the Prince's bodyguard,
dead, this evening. The Prince is missing. And so, pre-
sumably, is Alaire."
Naitachal froze, allowing the appropriate shock and
surprise to surface on his dark face. He turned to the
King. "Why, Your Majesty, what has happened? Have
you sent the guards to look for them? Is there any hint
of foul play?"
"You see!" the King exclaimed. "He doesn't know a
thing! And you were wanting to risk a war —"
He broke off abruptly, and returned his attention to
single-mindedly devouring his meal. Good gods, Nai-
tachal thought, gazing at Sir Jehan blankly. What have
I walked into here?
All assembled looked appropriately embarrassed.
Naitachal cleared his throat, and their eyes went to
him again. "Your Majesty, if harm has come to the
Prince, then what of my secretary? He would defend
young Kai, and I confess that now I am growing very
anxious. And as I gather from Alaire, Kainemonen is a
skilled swordsman himself. What happened to them?"
"We know very little, as yet," the King said, slurping
loudly from a goblet, showing no concern whatsoever
for his son. "The Swords of the Association are looking
for a mage. You see, magic is involved. Signs of it were
found with the body. I pray that both boys are safe, but
you see, they are in a very disreputable part of town."
He turned to Naitachal again, with his face set in an
inexpert mask of care. "It is a testament to my failings
as a father that he would choose to seek entertainment
in such a place. I know that your servant only meant
well, but this has become a rather difficult situation."
"How may I help?" Naitachal offered, now free to
display all of his considerable anxiety. "I am as interested
as you are in securing their safety. If there was —"
"It would be best," Sir Jehan interrupted stiffly,
"under the circumstances, that you remain distant
from —"
"Let the man finish!" the King shouted. "I'm still
not convinced that Althea is behind this!"
Naitachal glanced up at Sir Jehan, who looked away
nervously. "Althea?" the elf said softly. "That would be
— an unwise assumption."
"Of course, I don't think Althea is to blame," the
King blustered. The wine sloshed over the rim of his
goblet. "And neither does anyone else at this table.
There are forces behind this, this, this conspiracy that
are still a mystery. I'm afraid you've become involved
in a rather nasty civil dispute."
Naitachal spread his hands, helplessly. "I don't
mean to pry, Your Majesty, but what is the nature of
this dispute? I know nothing of it, and King Reynard
knows even less. We seem to have become implicated
only because we are foreigners in your land. My main
concern is for the safety of the two young men. If I
may help in some way —"
Sir Jehan stood suddenly, glared at Naitachal, and
stormed out of the dining room. The Dark Elf tried
not to stare, with little success.
"Ignore him," the King said. Sir Jehan's footsteps
thumped loudly down the corridor, audible for a sur-
prising distance. "We are not blaming you. He sees a
traitor behind every closed door."
As perhaps you should, Naitachal thought privately.
"I didn't warn you when you first arrived," the
King began. The Prince is an immature youth,
filled with ambition. I believe his ambition grows
too great, and he has begun to cast envious eyes on
the powers and positions he cannot have. But he
fails to understand just how powerful our mages are.
I am in no danger."
But what Naitachal saw in his tone and mannerisms
told a completely different story. King Archenomen's
eyes shifted from side to side, his voice quavered, his
drinking hand shook ever so slightly. He seldom met
Naitachal's eyes. Is he afraid of me?
Regarding the other dinner guests with cool detach-
ment, he took in their faces, and social rank as indicated by
their clothing. Of those assembled, he recognized one as
the Count he met the first night. Others had been present
in the waiting room when he met Sir Jehan.
One was without a doubt a mage, masquerading
unsuccessfully as a noble.
All seemed to ignore the interplay between the
King and the Dark Elf. In fact, they were listening,
very carefully, while at the same time trying to be as
invisible as possible.
The King shook his head. "If there is a danger to
me, which I doubt, it would be in the form of going
too far to defend against hazards which do not exist.
Sir Jehan will calm down. When he does, then we can
settle down to business."
The dinner proceeded in silence, and slowly the
other guests excused themselves. It seemed all very
strange to the Dark Elf, who would have expected at
least some show of concern for Alaire and the Prince.
Naitachal permitted himself to display his worry about
Alaire, as he wondered what had really happened in
the tavern district.
After supper adjourned, the King took Naitachal
aside. "We will keep you informed, Ambassador," the
King said, evidently thinking he had to smooth ruffled
feathers. "I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. By
dawn they'll both come staggering home, with youth-
ful tales of wine and women. Oh, and before you
leave," he added. "It would probably be best if you
remain in your quarters."
To Naitachal's accusing look, he quickly amended,
"So that we can find you on short notice, of course.
And for your safety."
Naitachal raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know my
safety was in question."
The King waved the comment away. "Just a precau-
tion. Good evening, Ambassador."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Naitachal said, bowing
deeply. "And good evening."
As he ascended the stairs to his room, he saw Sir
Jehan standing in the shadows, talking with a handful
of noblemen. He stopped as soon as Naitachal came
into view, and sent the others about their business
before turning pointedly to go himself. But he man-
aged to cast a cold, calculating look towards the elf,
complete with nauseating smile, before he was out of
sight
Chapter XIV
Alaire awakened, confused and rather groggy, buried
to the chin in a pile of hay in a loft above a stable.
Below him, he heard horses blowing and stamping.
Dim gray light filtered in through closed shutters at
one end of the loft. Kai was nowhere in sight. Weakly,
he struggled to sit up.
It was very cold, and the hay was all that had been
keeping him warm. He took in his surroundings, won-
dering why he was there, and how. A single ladder lay
against the loft edge within arm's reach, and it looked
like the only way up. In his mouth lingered the
unpleasant aftertaste of liquor. Did I get drunk and
forget what happened? He'd heard about blackouts
from his brother Craig, who on numerous occasions
had been unable to recall an entire evening of drink-
ing. More than once Alaire had helped put him to bed
after too much ale, after one of his Required Familial
Visits to the palace in Silver City. But this had never
happened to him.
Yet
Then again, he'd never tried to keep up with a sot
quite like Kai before.
There's a first time for everything. Did someone
carry me up to this loft because I passed out? Gods,
what happened to me?
A single round ventilation grille above him allowed
some light in. Beyond the piles of hay he made out the
wood-slat floor, which creaked as he stirred, and the
vague outline of his harp in its canvas bag, leaning
against the wall. Beside it was his bloodied sword,
glinting in the weak light.
Blood? What in —
The blood was dull and brown on the blade. Sud-
denly he remembered everything.
"Oh. No," he whispered to the chill air. The words
froze like little clouds before his nose. Another sort of
chill settled into his spine, and he suppressed a violent
shudder. Gods. l used magic.
Total wakefulness came with the realization.
Though still drained from the ordeal, he struggled to
his feet, a little unsteady, but more or less alert to
every sound in the stable. Within moments he was
numb with cold. From below him came the odor of
horse, or possibly dieren. The beasts made little noise
in the stable, and Alaire guessed it was fairly late now,
and they were asleep. Best to let it stay that way.
He considered the likely prospect that Kai had left
him here, to fend for himself, and had returned to the
castle alone. Staying with me would serve no purpose,
he admitted. Better that he's gone when the Swords of
the Association come take me away.
Climbing to the top of a mound of hay, he peered
out between the slats of the small, round window
and studied the snow-covered street below. A thick
layer of white covered the entire landscape, and
dotting the streets of what had to be the edge of the
tavern district were the staggering remnants of the
evening's revelers. He thought he saw the two men
who'd fought over the bottle of aakaviit, but that
did not concern him. What did matter was that he
didn't think he was far from the scene of his
"crime"; he puzzled over why the Swords hadn't
picked them up already.
Isn't arrest for Magic simultaneous with the spell-
casting? Maybe not. Maybe the mages here weren't
good enough to catch the perpetrator in time.
Before the arrest of the two magicians the previous
night, the officers had talked with the barkeep first.
Could this man have been an informant, telling them
who to arrest? Maybe, he thought with a thin ray of
hope, the Swords rely on snitches to make their
arrests, giving the impression of "omniscience" to
enhance their authority.
The man who ran Kai through fled when he saw
me. He was long gone by the time I found the harp. If
there were no witnesses to the Bardic Spell, then just
maybe —
If he stayed in the stable much longer he'd freeze to
death. Any warmth to be had in the place was down
there, with the beasts. And their owner would likely
appear at dawn to tend to them, if not sooner.
A door creaked open at the other end of the stable,
and Alaire held his breath. His heart was beating so
fast he was afraid it would give him away.
He saw nothing of the level below him, but who-
ever came in didn't stop at the animals. The ladder
began to rattle as someone climbed it. Alaire reached
for his sword and stood ready with it.
Kai's head popped up over the edge, and he froze,
with the tip of Alaire's sword at his throat.
The boy stared at him, then the blade, then back to
Alaire before saying, softly, "I see you're up. How do
you feel?"
Alaire let his breath out, and withdrew the blade.
"Better. Come on up here."
Kai did so, with two canvas sacks slung over his
shoulder, "I brought breakfast. And clothes. We can't
go around looking like we're highborn anymore."
Kai seemed grim, but alert and sober. "So," Alaire
said, dropping his voice in response to the obvious
need for quiet. "The Swords are looking for us?"
"Everybody's looking for us," the Prince whispered
urgently, dropping one of the sacks between them.
Although dried blood covered his clothes, his recovery
seemed to be total. If he had any pain from the
wound, he didn't show it. "The Swords of the Associa-
tion, the Constables, the Royal Guard. You should be
asking, who isn't looking for us!" He fixed Alaire with
an angry look. "You have a lot to answer for!"
"Huh?" Alaire replied, completely confused. "I
only —"
"Why didn't you tell me you were a Bard?" Kai
demanded. He opened one canvas bag, presenting a
banquet of food. Sausages, cheeses, bread. Even a
flask of wine. The sight of it all made Alaire's stomach
clench with hunger. Gods, I'm starving! he thought,
forgetting Kai's wrath.
They started eating, using Alaire's knife to carve up
the food. Once Alaire got some of the food in him, his
stomach quieted, and he felt much better prepared to
face whatever came.
"As I was saying," Kai said sternly, gesturing with a
sausage. "Why did you have to use magic, of all things?
We had those toughs beaten! Now we've got everyone
in the kingdom looking for us. There's a reward for us,
too. Ten thousand crowns!"
"Dead, or alive?" Alaire asked, carving another
hunk of sharp cheese off the enormous round.
"I'm not joking," Kai protested, filling his mouth
with bread and sausage.
Alaire regarded him askance. Then, it fell into
place. He doesn't remember anything from the time
the assassins attacked us to when the spell healed him.
Either from drinking, or from the magic. I still can't
believe I putted that off. He looked at die harp, sitting
behind Kai, and wondered with awe, am I a Bard
now?
Kai continued to seethe at him, plainly thinking that
Alaire had taken a stupid and cowardly way out of the
fight.
"For one thing," Alaire said, patiently, "I'm not a
Bard. I am only studying to be one, and I've not
achieved that status yet. We didn't mention that
before, because we were under instructions from our
King, my father, remember, to keep that to ourselves.
Would you have allowed us into your kingdom had
you known? No," he said, answering for Kai. "Anyway,
the question is moot. I tried the spell that I thought
would work, because if I hadn't you wouldn't be talk-
ing to me right now. You'd be dead. You suffered a
fatal wound. Remember?"
Kai's look made it clear the Prince didn't believe
him. "What are you talking about?" he asked irritably.
Alaire sighed. "What do you remember, Kai?"
He thought this over briefly. "We left the tavern,
two robbers jumped us, you took one and... and..."
"And what?" Alaire persisted
Kai's gaze grew very distant, and a strange, bleak,
frightened expression crept over his face. "I don't
remember. At least, I don't think I remember. Some-
thing happened back there, something that... it must
have been the magic."
Alaire looked at him narrowly. "Is that all?"
Kai looked ready to fling the cheese round at him.
"What else is there?"
His anger concealed what had to be fear. He does
know, Alaire realized. He knows what happened, and
he doesn't want to admit it. Who can blame him?
Would I want to relive that?
He decided to take control of the discussion. "The
robbers, as you called them, were no such thing. They
were assassins. And they were there to kill us, not take
our purses. I know, because the same ones or some-
one just like them tried to kill Naitachal, my Master,
within the very walls of your palace. I got lucky with
one; I killed him without so much as a scratch to
myself. That round with Captain Lyam probably saved
my life. I learned some things from your teacher that
put me at an advantage. Remind me to thank him."
"He's the best," Kai said proudly. Then he frowned
in accusation. "If you got so good at this, then why did
you have to invoke magic?"
Alaire sighed "Because the assassin you were fight-
ing killed you. Or at least, he wounded you badly
enough that you almost died."
Kai smirked. "Sure he did."
"You don't remember?" Alaire asked, annoyed.
"You don't remember when the assassin ran you
through? Or falling? You don't remember bleeding all
over the snow, or me singing over you?"
"Well — I —" For a moment, the arrogance was
gone. Then it returned. "Prove it to me!" he
demanded belligerently.
Humph. "All right," Alaire said immediately. "I will.
Lift your shirt up."
Boldly, the Prince did, without hesitating, revealing
a flat, white belly. "What are you looking at?" Kai
asked with a smirk, then looked down.
When he saw the fresh scar, still red and a little
puckered, he sucked his breath in. "Gods," he whis-
pered. "How did that happen? That wasn't there
yesterday."
"That was where the assassin ran you through," Alaire
informed him grimly. "I came just in time to see him do
it, too. He saw me and, I guess he assumed his job was
done. He turned and fled. You were lying in the snow,
with a gut wound, and bleeding enough to fill a lake."
The revelation, and the proof, clearly disturbed Kai.
"All that blood," he said, weakly. "I thought it was the
robbers."
Alaire snorted. "No. It was yours. I knew you would
die if I didn't do something about it, so I took my harp
and wove a spell I saw my Master perform once. It
brought you back." He spread his hands wide. "I had
to," he said simply. "You're my friend, Kai."
Kai stared at him in disbelief. "You risked every-
thing so I would live," he said slowly. "Nobody's ever
done that before. I can't think of anyone who would,
except maybe Captain Lyam." He looked away, wiping
his face with a sleeve. When he looked back, a tear
rolled down a cheek.
"I was dead?"
Alaire hesitated before nodding. "Something in my
magic, something I don't understand yet, brought you
back." He didn't know what else to say. "I guess that
was why I passed out," he finished.
At first Kai simply sat and stared at him. His face
grew pale, then he began to tremble; his stony facade
melted, and tears began to trickle slowly down his
cheeks.
At first Alaire thought he might still be drunk; he
certainly still reeked of aakaviit. He'd seen many
drunks get weepy this way.
But then Kai collapsed into a ball, leaning towards
Alaire, sobbing. This is different, the bardling thought
then. He's not just drunk.
Hesitantly, he patted Kai's back, and offered his
shoulder for support. Kai took it without pride. As
Alaire held him closer he broke down completely,
burying his face in Alaire's shoulder, stifling the sobs in
the fabric of his coat
They held each other for a long time in the cold
loft, Alaire listening to Kai's incoherent grief and the
sounds of sleeping livestock. He kept silent, knowing
the value of it, as any Bard would. Finally the last of
Kai's grief drained from him, and Kai pulled away.
He peered at Alaire through swollen eyes. "If I
hadn't been drunk you might not have had to do that.
If I had been sober that assassin wouldn't have stood a
chance. And you wouldn't be in trouble for saving my
life."
"I don't know that," Alaire lied. "Those two were
experts."
"Horseturds," Kai said. "It finally got the better of
me. I never thought it would."
"The sword?"
He shook his head. "No. The bottle." Kai frowned,
and looked down at the gore stiffening his clothes,
with growing horror. "Demondogs! This is my blood!"
He started shedding the clothes, as Alaire watched
in amusement. Now he believes me. He's willing to
freeze his behind to get those bloody clothes off his
skin!
Pale, skinny and naked, Kai hopped over to the sec-
ond bag he'd brought with him and pulled out a pair
of leather trousers, boots, a flannel shirt, a leather
tunic. In his already disheveled state, and with these
new garments, he looked like an ordinary peasant boy.
"Now tell me," Alaire said. "How did you get me up
here?"
Kai shrugged. "After that — spell, I guess it was,
you got all wonky. Like you were walking in your
sleep. I got you as far as this stable, and you sort of
helped yourself up the ladder, flopped over on the hay,
and passed out. I thought you were going to get cold,
so I covered you with hay."
Alaire managed a smile. The spell took a lot out of
me, I guess. I'm better now, and the food helped.
Thanks."
Kai flung clothing at him from the canvas bag.
"You'd better change. If we don't look like peasants,
we'll stand out like peacocks on a chicken farm."
Alaire hesitated before exposing himself to the
frigid air, then started dressing quickly. Kai's a native
here. He knows more about this place than I do.
"Where are we, and where did you get the food?'
"The stable is in the care of Gallen, the owner of
The Dead Dragon Inn, and belongs to a Count on the
eastern border. He comes into Rozinki twice a year,
and he's not due back for months. The dieren down
there belong to traders who come into town for sup-
plies. I chose this place for two reasons, one being if
any of those traders saw us, they would look the other
way. They'll want nothing to do with the Association,
or the reward. I know too many things about them,
things that they do that aren't exactly legal, like using
unlicensed mages when they're on the edge of the
kingdom. They know I know, and they know I
wouldn't hesitate to turn them in if they turned me in,
so we're pretty safe. But not for too long. By daybreak,
this street will be crawling with Swords."
"Then where will we go?" And what will you do?
Kai looked thoughtful. "Well, Gallen is on our side.
For months I've been bribing him with promises of
protection and favors once I'm King. My father taxes
these places heavily, and I've promised to cut their
taxes down to almost nothing. And besides, I know
that half of the liquor he serves there hasn't got a tax
stamp. I know who smuggles it to him, and how."
Which explains why most of these places let him in
the door.
Kai looked a little more confident now. "He has a
warm basement where we can hide for days, if need
be. The Swords and the Constables have already
searched there. They might go back, but I don't think
so. They believe Gallen is loyal to the Crown. It's the
best place I can think of."
Alaire considered his options, saw that he had very
few of them. Do as the natives do. He pulled the last
of the clothes on, a tunic that was a little too big. The
boots were better than the ones he'd had before, since
they were fur lined, and designed for the cold. Long,
threadbare woolen scarfs were wrapped around their
heads and necks, giving them an undeniable poverty-
stricken look.
But Kai still hadn't really answered his question.
"Kai, what's going to happen? What are we going to
dor
Kai finished tucking the scarf into his tunic, then
said slowly, "We're both wanted for 'questioning,' but
that really means they've already convicted us." His
brow creased with thought. "I might be able to explain
what happened. I can say a mage came along, that it
wasn't you. Or something. As soon as I convince
Father someone tried to assassinate me, it might make
a difference. Father has the power to pardon us both."
Kai said nothing about the Prison of Souls, but the
omission emphasized it, highlighted it, drew circles
and arrows around it. Prison of Souls. He desperately
wanted to ask Kai more about it, but was more afraid
of what the answer might be.
Not might, would. Minimum sentence, one year.
They put the bodies in caskets, their souls in crystals.
Fuel for magic. Limbo. Nothingness? Or is there pain,
a slow burning, or is it like roasting on a spit? Aging
twenty years for every one. No, I can't let that happen.
A lump of fear settled coldly in his stomach, which
threatened to expel his breakfast. But Alaire forced his
gut to settle, and turned his thoughts to other con-
cerns. A lesser, but nonetheless important concern,
was Kai's going back to the palace. This seemed, at the
best, foolhardy. Would they believe him? he won-
dered. Could he really convince the King to overlook
this little incident?
Is he my only chance?
Kai seemed now to be blithely certain of success.
"As soon as you're secure in the basement, I'm going
back to the palace to talk to Father. Gallen will take
care of you. Just cooperate, do as he says, and every-
thing should be fine."
"I doubt that," Alaire said sadly. "Our so-called dip-
lomatic mission is now a disastrous ruin." He looked
up, suddenly concerned for his Master. "Any word on
how they're treating Naitachal? Is he under arrest?"
Alaire guessed that his Master and friend would not
fare well in a Suinomen gaol. Althea would view this as
an act of war.
They stared at each other, apparently having the
same thought.
"How stupid of me!" Kai said, slapping his fore-
head. "That was the whole reason for the attack! Your
Master is an elf, and I'll bet they figured you had to be
some kind of mage too! If they didn't kill you, they
.would force you to use magic. These enemies, who-
ever they are in the palace, thought this through
completely. Yes, Naitachal will probably be arrested.
Would Althea go to war over that?"
Alaire's stomach lurched again. "Maybe, but if they
imprison one of the King's sons, even unwittingly —"
He seized his head in both hands, as it threatened to
explode from the pain of headache and heartache.
"Oh gods — I don't know what to do! Unless I escape
Suinomen and explain what's going on to my father,
we have no chance of preventing war."
How had all this turned into such a horrid mess, so
quickly?
Kai looked grim. "There are probably watchers and
checkpoints at the port and the roads. Still, there are
ways. If worse comes to worse, I can put you on a boat
for Althea."
"If it comes to that. I hope it doesn't." He shook his
head unhappily, some of the exhaustion coming back.
"Gods, what a mess this is! Does someone in the pal-
ace want a war with us that badly to go to so much
trouble?'
Now Kai looked completely baffled. "I see no possi-
ble benefit from it, for anybody. But it sure looks that
way. I have to convince Father of what's going on. It's
the only chance we both have."
They made ready to leave for Gallen's. Kai eyed the
harp suspiciously, then suggested he keep it with him,
in case he needed to protect himself. Alaire slung it
over his back, on its wide leather carrying-strap, to
give his arm free movement if he had to use his sword.
He overestimates my Bardic ability, Alaire thought
wryly, though it was flattering that the Prince would
do so. But then Alaire remembered last night....
Who knows, maybe I can raise the power to defend
myself against an army. Yes, and pigs will turn to
swans when I do so!
They gathered up all the old clothes and stashed
them in one of the bags. Kai gave instructions to Alaire
to burn them as soon as possible.
In the dark of the early morning, the two peasant
boys crept out of the stable. The snow had diminished
to a mere dusting, though Alaire had trouble negotiat-
ing what had already accumulated.
"You can do better than that. Someone will notice
you," Kai admonished. Alaire didn't know what he was
talking about. "If we look like we're drunk, maybe it
won't be so noticeable if you slip and slide a little."
Alaire took the flask of wine out of the bag, took a
drink, and, hesitating, handed it to Kai. The boy stared
at it for a long moment, then wrinkled his nose, and
refused
"No. Thanks. I'm not really ... in the mood for it
right now."
Alaire gawked at him. Never thought I'd hear that.
To give the impression he'd been drinking all night,
he dribbled a little on his tunic, then splashed some on
Kai as well. Now they both smelled like a winery. A
cheap winery. He capped the flask and held it in plain
sight.
Alaire guessed by the hint of daylight on the hori-
zon that dawn would arrive soon on the deserted
streets. I hope I'll be safe enough to be able to sleep in
this place, he thought, stifling a yawn. I'm ready to fall
over right now.
He recognized some of the taverns, most of them
closed, as ones they'd been to on Kai's last carouse. A
few were still open to greet the dawn, now an undeni-
able brightness on the eastern horizon. The
burned-out tavern where their misadventure had
begun earlier that night was a charred husk, still smell-
ing strongly of smoke. As they passed it, there was a bit
of warmth coming from it still; it felt good, but they
had no time to stop. At the end of the street a
mounted figure in a uniform appeared, and Kai stiff-
ened.
"Do what I do," Kai said quickly. The uniformed
man saw them and directed his dieren towards them.
It was quite appallingly surefooted in the snow, and
Alaire realized that it would have no trouble overtak-
ing them and running them down if they tried to flee.
Alaire thought he was going to lose his breakfast
again, this time from the other end of his body. As the
man approached, he saw that it was a lone member of
the Swords of the Association. His throat became dry,
his knees turned to mush. Their swords, though
concealed beneath their thick fur coats, were well
within reach. Am I going to kill twice in one day? At
this point he would do anything, short of sacrificing
Kai, to avoid the Prison of Souls.
"Don't even think it," Kai whispered "There would
be fifty of them on top of us in moments. Follow me.
Say nothing."
Horrified, Alaire watched Kai run to the soldier.
Kai, what are you doing!?
"Alms!" Kai cried, jumping up and down like a little
kid, holding his hands up to the soldier. "Alms for a
poor beggar child who hasn't eaten in three days!" He
held his hand higher, and the soldier stopped,
momentarily confused. Alaire ran over and held an
open palm up, looking hungry and desperate, the lat-
ter not requiring much acting.
"Oh, please, kind sir!" Kai wailed pathetically. "Can
you spare us a little coin? A copper? Please, sir, we're
starving!"
"Ho! Get away, you little beggars!" the solder cried.
The dieren came to a complete stop, the beast itself
disinterested in the two peasants. The soldier sniffed
the air. "You're hungry because you've been too busy
drinking wine to spend money on food!" The soldier
shouted. "Look! It's a wonder you're hungry now!"
The soldier was pointing at Alaire's wine flask,
which he still had in his other hand. He grinned
sheepishly, opened it and offered it to the soldier.
"Go home and to bed, peasants! I have criminals to
look for!" He kicked his beast and the dieren trotted
off down the street, in search of the Prince of Sumo-
men and a renegade Bard.
"Tightwad," Kai spat, watching the retreating sol-
dier. "They get paid six hundred crowns a month, and
yesterday was payday!"
Alaire remembered Gallen from the night they first
went to The Dead Dragon Inn. He was one of the bar-
keeps who tried, in vain, to prevent Kai from taking on
the five sailors. He seemed too young to be bald, and
Alaire guessed him to be around thirty, with a large,
knobby nose and beet-red complexion, as if perpetu-
ally embarrassed about something. His expression was
not exactly welcoming when they reached the rear
door of the inn; he glanced up and down the alley
nervously, then hurried them inside.
"So this is your friend, who caused all the trouble,"
he said gruffly. "Well, can't be helped In for a lamb, in
for a sheep. Follow me."
He took them down steep, narrow stairs into a maw
of darkness. Rich odors of wet earth, and stale beer,
and fermenting yeast wafted past them. There were
no handrails, and Alaire tiptoed nervously on the
uncertain steps. Once down, light bloomed when Gal-
len struck a match, and lit a single candle.
'This is where we keep some of the premium ale,
and it's also where we brew the cheap stuff. Do not
disturb any of it, or you'll interrupt the fermentation.
Come on, the place I have for you is back here."
Past the kegs was another, even smaller passageway,
lined with planks. It looked like an old mine. When
Alaire asked about it, Gallen confirmed it.
"Used to mine crystals down here, centuries ago,
before the Crown made magic illegal. It doesn't go
back very far, but I've got a place set up that's not very
easy to find. There is a single flue connecting with the
main chimney above, and it will only handle small
fires. Got one going now."
They entered a hollowed-out section that looked as
if it might once have been part of a cave, with a curved,
rock wall. A stove glowed warmly in the corner. A row
of bunk beds with hay mattresses lined one wall.
"Mac was here after you left," Gallen informed
them. "Your friend the constable. Thought you might
be back here. I tell you, I don't like it, Kainemonen.
This is not a safe place."
"It's the only place we have," Kai admitted sadly. "I
won't be here long anyway. I'm going back to the pal-
ace tonight. Last night was an attempted assassination,
not a robbery. My father must know about it."
Gallen seemed resigned. "If you must. Whatever
you do, please don't say anything about this! They'll
execute me for treason!"
Kai nodded, an oddly adult expression on his face.
"Don't I know it," he said. "Alaire will think of some-
thing for you to tell them. Something that will get you
off the hook."
Thanks, Kai! But better that they got their stories
straight now, he supposed
Alaire stowed his harp under the bottom bed, then
sat on the edge. The warmth of the room acted like a
weight on his eyelids.
"Kai, I need to know something," he said suddenly,
forcing himself awake. "How good are the Swords in
tracking magic users? When they captured those two
the other night, were they led there by a snitch, or did
they have some way of 'seeing' them, and where they
were."
"They're not as good at that as they say," Gallen
said. "Usually, someone turns the magic users in. If no
one saw you, then they would have no way of knowing
who was responsible. They can 'feel' magic being per-
formed, but can only narrow the search down to a
particular portion of town. If we can keep you under
cover long enough, the traces of magic still on you
from what you did will wear off, and they'll never be
able to prove you did anything."
But he turned back to Kai and his face showed pure
desperation. "If you would reconsider. Another part of
town, on the north side, perhaps, would be much
safer."
Kai set his jaw stubbornly. "I don't know anybody
up there."
Gallen looked just about ready to cry. "But you're a
Prince!"
Kai glared at him. "But all my friends are here, in
the tavern district. I don't know anyone up there. And
remember the things I know, Gallen."
The man's red face paled.
"If you are my friend," Kai continued, "then you
will help me. Please take care of Alaire, protect him,
feed him, conceal him. I will be back as soon as I can."
These last words faded quickly as exhaustion over-
whelmed him. Whether or not I'm in a safe place now,
I can't — hold — out, he thought as he collapsed back
on the bed, and his eyelids dropped closed.
Chapter XV
In their room, Naitachal prepared for breakfast in the
great hall. A knock sounded at the door; he reached
for his sword, but didn't draw it. He recalled that the
last time someone knocked on his door it had been lit-
tle Erik, come to clean the room. He relaxed a little. It
wouldn't do at all for the boy to walk in a second time
with a sword pointed towards him, and he didn't think
the poor child would believe the "practice" story
again.
"Come in," Naitachal said, carefully.
The door opened, and a cart pushed by Erik came
rolling in. "Your breakfast," the boy said happily.
"Paavo sent me in with it, sir."
The Dark Elf raised his eyebrows when he saw
what they'd sent. Dieren steak, fried eggs, a fresh loaf
of bread, a round of cheese, a pot of jam. Compared to
the "repast" of yesterday, this was a veritable feast.
Hmm, he thought, trying to unweave the tangled
web they were spinning before him. They're serving
me in my room, on the third day of the visit. They
must want me out of the way, so as not to mingle with
anyone who might ask me questions about the where-
abouts of Kai and Alaire.
"Where would you like it?" the boy asked, eager to
please. At least they had not managed to contaminate
Erik's mind.
"Anywhere," he said. The cart became a clever
table, and he pulled up a chair to make the best of the
meal. Something tells me this is going to be a trying
day. I'll need my energy.
Erik made ready to leave. Naitachal spoke up. "You
don't have to leave, just yet. Come sit. I'll be happy to
talk with you, if you like. You had a lot of questions
yesterday."
Shyly, the boy complied, but his hesitancy indicated
he either had something else he had to do, or Paavo
had instructed him not to talk to the Dark Elf.
Naitachal cut a careful piece from the dieren steak,
and ate it as casually as if he had not a care in the
world. Young as this child was, and guileless, he could
still be used as a source of information. "So. Have the
Prince and my secretary returned to the palace yet?"
"That's your secretary they're looking for, too?" the
boy replied, clearly shocked.
Naitachal ate a piece of bread. "Evidently," he said
with careful casualness. "What's the news?"
"Well," Erik began, eying the door. "I — uh —"
Is someone watching him, making sure he returns
promptly?
"Yes?" the elf asked.
"They're both still missing," Erik said, quickly, "and
Sir Jehan threw a flying fit when the Swords failed to
find them last night. He sealed the port, permitting no
ships to leave or enter without a search."
I never considered escape by sea, Naitachal mused.
Gods forbid that ever becomes necessary. It may be
the only route out of this land. He tried some of the
cheese. It was excellent.
"Interesting," he said. "I can't imagine why they
think Alaire would want to escape. His place is with
me, after all. I should think they ought to be looking
for whoever has kidnapped him and is trying to create
an incident."
There. Plant a rumor of my own.
The boy stared at him. "Why are they keeping you
here?" Erik blurted. "All the servants are talking about
it."
Well, that didn't make much sense. "Keeping? You
mean, 'boarding,' don't you?" Naitachal asked.
Erik made a face. "I mean, why aren't they letting
you leave the Palace? Why don't you go look for your
secretary yourself?"
Now it was Naitachal's turn to look surprised. "I
wasn't aware this was the case. They must really think
I'm important. Or perhaps they do think someone has
kidnapped Alaire, and they fear for my safety if I ven-
ture into town."
Erik glanced at the door again, then stood, and said,
"I'll be by later to clean the room. Are those Alaire's
things over there, in the corner?"
Alaire was a tidy traveler, and was careful to keep
his clothing and assorted belongings in one place, so as
not to get mixed up or get in the way of his Master's
possessions. "Indeed. Why do you ask?"
Erik was visibly nervous. "I wanted to make sure, so
I wouldn't disturb them."
And he was gone.
Puzzling, the Dark Elf thought. He is a rich source
of information. Erik would make an excellent spy, if he
isn't one already. After all, who would suspect a child?
Except an evil Dark Elf, who would suspect his own
mother in this place----
Still, the boy seemed innocent enough. But his
tongue certainly does wag a lot if he's working for the
King in that capacity. And if I'm a captive in this place,
I must be the last one to know.
He finished breakfast, and was about to ignore the
King's request that he stay in his room when someone
knocked on the door again.
He had his sword out this time; the knock was
harder, and was higher on the door. An adult.
Captain Lyam let himself in without invitation. He
glanced at the sword indifferently, not particularly sur-
prised or offended. Naitachal returned it to its sheath.
"We have news about the Prince," Lyam said
soberly. "This morning he returned. He's in the King's
chambers right now."
Naitachal did not bother to hide his elation. At least
he knew that the boys were still among the living!
"And Alaire?"
Lyam's face was grim. "He, unfortunately, has not
returned. Went off on his own in the tavern district,
according to Kai. The Prince is probably protecting
him, but so far the story holds water. King Archeno-
men urgently requests your presence, at once."
"So how else was I supposed to get onto the palace
grounds unrecognized?" Kai was shouting shrilly
when Naitachal entered the King's chambers, with
Captain Lyam at his side. "You have half the kingdom
out looking for me. You've accused me of a crime I
didn't commit, you've offered a reward for my head,
and you ask me why I look like a pauper? Of course
I'm dressed like a peasant. Maybe you should be ask-
ing that stupid guard why it was so easy for me to get
in, Father!"
The King looked as if he had a splitting headache,
one which was getting worse with each passing sec-
ond. Captain Lyam looked away, visibly trying not to
look embarrassed. He was, after all, in charge of the
guard in question. Sir Jehan was standing to the Kings
right, evidently enjoying the show while attempting to
look concerned. Beside him stood Soren, the rotund
wizard, dressed in an even more gaudy robe of bur-
gundy silk, decorated with silver moons, stars and
symbols of unknown meaning. The wizard seemed
intimidated by Kai's brazen insolence, while trying,
without success, to exude authority as the Kings head
magician. Behind these men, against the rear wall of
the Kings chambers, stood ten heavily armed guards,
some holding shackles and chains at their sides, open
and ready to use.
Prince Kai sat in a heavy wooden chair in the center
of the room, his feet dangling above the floor, glaring
at everybody present.
"Ah. You must be the Ambassador of Althea," Kai
said as his eyes settled on Naitachal. "Alaire has told
me much about you. I'm glad you're here. I was saving
the best for when you arrived."
Naitachal bowed graciously. "Pleased to make your
acquaintance."
Kai continued, with a certain amount of glee in his
voice. "Last night someone sent two assassins to kill
me and Alaire. And they almost succeeded."
"Assassins?" Lyam spoke up. "Are you sure?"
Despite the surprise the large man was feigning, Nai-
tachal knew the man had expected this. Why else
would he be training the boy so hard with the sword?
Captain Lyam has anticipated this for months.
"Oh, don't be silly," the King said, petulantly.
"You probably got attacked by a couple of pickpock-
ets. What did you expect, carousing in such a
place?"
"Were they by chance dressed in black, with black
wrappings concealing their faces?" Naitachal said,
loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
"What are you talking about?" the King demanded,
distracted by Naitachal's question and the sudden odd
turn the interrogation had taken.
"Yes, they were," Kai said. "They were profession-
als, wearing black costumes and black scarves about
their faces. So Alaire was right. They were like the
ones who came after you."
"Only one, my lord," the Dark Elf corrected. "But
otherwise the same."
"Ambassador, were you attacked? Why didn't you
say anything about it?" the King said in a softer, dan-
gerous tone. "When did this happen?'
"The first night we were here," Naitachal said, step-
ping closer. "I didn't report it because — there were
things about your land I did not understand I wanted
to find out more first. The incident, however, left me
with the feeling this assassin was not trying to kill me,
but to goad me into using magic against him. While
this was tempting, I remembered in time where I was,
and refrained. The attacker fled, and if he were really
trying to kill me he would not have abandoned the
job."
"Now why would someone want to force you to use
magic?" Sir Jehan said, in a oily voice. He was stroking
his beard casually, pretending he was relaxed during
these proceedings, but a nervous tic at the side of his
face gave him away. "Certainly you're not suggesting
the King had anything to do with it?'
Naitachal made no secret of his contempt for such a
suggestion. "No, I am not. But whoever it was knew
the castle, and apparently knew of secret passages.
The man who attacked me vanished, and he went
down one of these, I suspect"
The King's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I find it
very disturbing, Ambassador, that you have chosen to
keep this to yourself," King Archenomen said. "This
raises questions. Can you prove this? Did anyone see
this?'
"There were no witnesses," Naitachal said, "save
myself. And that was precisely why I said nothing, for
with no way to prove what happened, who would ever
have believed me?" He faced the King squarely, meet-
ing him eye to eye. "I, on the other hand, find it even
more disturbing that someone attacked me, a guest of
this palace. From our conversations I have gathered
that you feel there is a conspiracy afoot. Perhaps ele-
ments of this conspiracy are responsible for these two
attempts at murder — one upon me, and the other
upon my secretary and your Prince."
"We are not doubting your word," Sir Jehan said
evenly. "If you had reported the attack when it hap-
pened, we might have been in a position to do
something about it, but I fear the evidence, if there
were any, would be a little stale by now, don't you
think?" His face hardened. The time had come for
him to make his move. "No, the situation, I fear, is
something other than the Prince claims. It appears
your secretary has broken one of our laws, and is hid-
ing from our justice."
"Alaire did no such thing!" Kai shouted at his erst-
while friend.
"Silence!" the King roared. "You've had your say."
Naitachal regarded Sir Jehan with a cold, unwaver-
ing stare. "Those are strong accusations to be making
against Althea. What evidence have you? And what
law did Alaire allegedly break?"
Sir Jehan met his stare and promptly blinked, then
looked away. "When the boys went out last night, I
had two of our men follow. This was only a precaution,
you see, and something I do from time to time anyway.
Our men caught Kai trying to recruit magicians in the
tavern district, and when he saw our men he went
after them, killing one. The other lived to tell about it."
"Interesting," Naitachal replied. "If true. Why
wasn't this information available last night? Certainly
you must have known at dinner that this alleged inci-
dent had taken place. Why did you say nothing?"
King Archenomen cleared his throat. "It would be
wise of you, my dear Ambassador, to remember that
you are a guest of the palace, and not a member of my
staff," he said sternly. "There are things to which you
are not privy. Sir Jehan, please continue."
"Our man saw Alaire cast the spell," Sir Jehan said
smugly. "And a rather potent one, at that. It was for
show only, to impress the Prince. It would also seem
that the Ambassador's secretary has been in the proc-
ess of allying himself with the young, traitorous Prince,
while his Master is presenting the illusion of Althean
decency here in the palace."
He turned to the King, his tone silky, but full of
menace. "Your Majesty, there can be no mistaking the
factions that threaten your land. We have seen a clear
pattern of deception, cloaked with diplomatic propri-
ety. Althea has been infiltrating mages into your land
to aid the Prince in disposing of you, and last night my
men caught the Prince and an Althean mage red-
handed carrying out plans to overthrow you. I see no
reason for further debate."
"Well, I do," Prince Kainemonen interjected. "Sir
Jehan is a lying traitor. There were no keepers as he
describes, only two ruffians who tried to kill us both,
without provocation. Sir Jehan sent assassins, not
guardians. Please, Father, you must believe me! I am
your son! I am telling you the truthl"
King Archenomen gazed at his son thoughtfully,
rubbing his temples as if this would make it all go
away. Then he shook his head.
His voice was sad and heavy, but determined. "Son,
in the past year I have seen you go through some
disagreeable changes. You have completely ignored
your responsibilities here at the palace in favor of
carousing with the scum of our society. You have
consistently shamed Suinomen before visiting
dignitaries, important men of the trades, and our own
nobles; you have shamed the throne, and worst of all
you have shamed me personally.
"Do you have any idea how bad you make me look
when you show up too drunk to stand at official gath-
erings? Do you know how humiliated I am whenever
you arrive at the palace at daybreak, reeking of ale,
with women in tow, singing at the top of your lungs?
Your mother won't speak to me, she won't even show
her face in public, because of the monster you've
become.
"You've shown no interest in the well-being of this
Kingdom, unless it happens to coincide with your own
selfish needs. You're more interested in your grape
crop than you are in the farmers' wheat! Sir Jehan, on
the other hand, has been a trustworthy confidant of
mine since before you were born, has consistently per-
formed his duties with no regard for his own welfare,
and up until now he's put out every one of the little
political fires you've started, protected the throne, put
the kingdom's needs before his every waking moment
of his life, and you want me to take your word over
his? How dare you insult my intelligence that way!"
The silence in the room was thick enough to cut.
Nobody moved, or breathed. The King was on his
feet, his face a hand's width away from his son's, and
purple with rage.
"Why should I believe you?" the King said, his voice
dripping with contempt, and he turned on his heel
and returned to his throne.
Kai didn't answer right away. His attitude during his
father's tirade had gone from cocky to neutral to sub-
missive.
He spoke softly, into that horrible silence that had
filled the room.
"Because I am telling the truth, Father."
"Nonsense!" the King spat "You've been conspiring
against me for a long time now. Admit it! And you
thought you had an ally in Althea. Didn't you?"
"I thought no such thing, Father."
"Where is this secretary?" Sir Jehan demanded "If
you're not a traitor, then why are you protecting him?"
Kai shrugged. "I told you, we parted, last night.
Check the brothels."
"If I may interject something," Naitachal said cau-
tiously. "If Alaire is allegedly guilty of performing
magic without a license, then why haven't the Swords
of the Association picked him up already? They're
magicians, with a license. Surely this shouldn't be a
problem. Any Althean hedge-wizard can track the
scent of magic to whoever has performed it One of
your Association mages should have found Alaire long
ago, if he is guilty."
All eyes turned to Soren, who had all but vanished
during the exchange. It looked to Naitachal rather as if
he had attempted to slip out the door.
"Your Majesty," he said, sweating profusely, "this is a
very powerful mage we're talking about here. He must
have — must have cast some sort of concealing spell,
so that we can't find him. The moment he cast the
magic, the entire Association Hall trembled with the
power, and we knew immediately where it came from.
The tavern district. As soon as our staff of magicians
began tracing this power source back to the culprit,
the trail mysteriously vanished."
Naitachal rolled his eyes. What a charlatan. "Are
we speaking of the same young man?" he asked mildly.
"A powerful mage? At nineteen?"
"You've never had this problem before," the King
said suspiciously. "Why the problem now?"
Sweat was pouring down Soren's face. "If we had some
personal possession of his, it would make it much easier."
"Such as?" Naitachal asked politely. First Alaire is a
conspirator, now a mage. Not even a hint that he's a
Bard. Good. Up to a point.
"An article of clothing, jewelry. Anything will do."
"Then perhaps we should escort Naitachal back to
his room," Captain Lyam suggested. "Where Alaire's
possessions are." The Dark Elf's heart sank; he had
hoped Lyam would be an ally, but it looked otherwise.
Perhaps he still is. There's enough smoke in this room
to smother a horse.
"Before you go anywhere," the King said, yawning.
"Arrest Kai. Throw him in the dungeon, until further
notice."
"No!" Kai shrieked, leaping to his feet. "You can't do
that! I'm your son!"
"You were my son. No longer. Take him away."
Two of the guards came forward with shackles. The
boy looked ready to fight, but all his energy drained
out of him before Naitachal's eyes. Once shackled,
feet and hands, he walked out of the King's chamber
with a loud rattle, his head down. Sir Jehan looked
positively gleeful.
"Oh, and one more thing," the King said, address-
ing Naitachal. "Any idea why Althea would be massing
troops near our southern border?"
"Your Majesty? Are you sure about that?" Certainly
there must be a mistake!
"Quite. I await your response."
"I know nothing of this, either," Naitachal said.
Someone must have lied to him.
The King smiled. "That is an unacceptable answer,
Ambassador. Now, you were saying, Soren?"
The wizard trembled. "I need a relic. A possession
of the secretary's, if I may."
The King waved at him. "Take what you need. Sir
Jehan, you go with them. Ambassador, until we resolve
this matter, I ask you to place yourself voluntarily
under guard of Captain Lyam. If you resist, or try to
return to Althea, you will share the dungeon with the
former Prince Kainemonen, and a state of war will
exist between our two kingdoms. It would seem by the
actions of your own army that such a state may already
exist. Do you understand the severity of this situation,
Ambassador?"
"Indeed I do," Naitachal replied. "I will assist you
any way I can. I cannot explain why our forces are
gathering on your borders, but I doubt they are con-
sidering an invasion."
The King only smiled a little more, as if he had
expected this answer; it pleased him. "Your lack of
total conviction is disturbing, Ambassador. The only
thing we would like you to do now is provide a posses-
sion of the young man's to Soren, then confine
yourself to your room. Captain Lyam will be person-
ally responsible for your continued residency here."
"Then by all means," Naitachal said, "let's go and
get what you need."
The grim procession of four to Naitachal's room
attracted a great deal of unwanted attention. It looked
for all the world like the group was on its way to an
execution, and Naitachal was the guest of honor. Sev-
eral of the palace guests stood and stared at the group,
the news of the situation and the return of the Prince
having spread quickly through the halls. This treat-
ment was nothing new to Naitachal; the natives of this
wretched, backwards kingdom gawked at him anyway.
The Dark Elf knew it wasn't time to direct blame.
He must remain calm and professional, and play along
with whatever they wanted. They hadn't thrown him
in prison yet —
Sir Jehan stayed behind them several paces, keeping
a distance from Naitachal. The nobleman had made a
habit of avoiding his eyes, perhaps because he knew
what a Necromancer was.
In the old days we killed with a look, made all the
easier if we made eye contact, Naitachal thought
stormily as they approached the room. And I have a
very good reason to kill you; you are the one behind all
of this.
He berated himself for being so stupid He knew he
should have concluded this long ago, but had not —
because it was too obvious? Naitachal hoped that was
not the case . . . but feared it was. Oversubtlety was a
character flaw of his, no doubt about it
Naitachal noted with a kind of reluctant admiration
— in the way that one admires the efficiency of a poi-
son, or the potency of a snake's venom — that Jehan
had conveniently and convincingly accomplished both
these deeds over a single evening. It would seem that
somebody in the Kings circle of confidants would take
notice, but evidently nobody did. Or else — they were
all in Jehan's pocket as well.
Do they know Sir Jehan patronizes the tavern dis-
trict too? Perhaps not. The man is shrewd, to bring
this off as far as he has. He planned all this from the
beginning; my arrival was never more than a slight
inconvenience. He's planning on my use of magic to
save myself and Alaire. The question is, does he think
his magicians are better than I am? Not only has he
declared war on Althea, he's declared war on me.
He doubted Suinomen magicians were much of a
challenge, at least the ones he'd seen already. Lyam
said they dwelled in the Palace, but only Soren had
appeared at this little meeting. Though Soren did
seem like an incompetent, giving him a relic of Alaire's
made Naitachal a little uneasy. Even amateur magi-
cians can go far with relics....
When Captain Lyam opened the door for them, he
winked at Naitachal, ever so subtly.
Erik cleaned the room, as promised. However, one
thing was not as Erik had promised. Alaire's things
were gone. Not a single stitch of fabric remained
which belonged to the lad. Naitachal tried not to look
surprised.
Instead, he pretended as if nothing was missing.
"It doesn't seem to be much," Sir Jehan noted.
"Which are his things, Ambassador?"
"This must be it," Captain Lyam said helpfully,
picking up a saddlebag the elf didn't recognize. Inside
were garments about Alaire's size, resembling what he
had worn before. But they were not his; Naitachal was
as sure of that as he was certain of his own name.
"A favorite piece of jewelry would be most benefi-
cial," Soren said, his chest puffing out importantly.
"Does he have any such thing?"
"But of course," Naitachal said. He reached for a
smaller bag belonging to himself, made a pretense of
searching, and pulled out a shiny silver ring with a
human skull, a death's head with tiny rubies for eyes.
"This was one of his most prized possessions."
"Charming, isn't it?" Soren said sarcastically to Sir
Jehan, holding it up to the light. "But if it belonged to
him, it will be most helpful."
Without so much as a thank you, Sir Jehan and
Soren left. Captain Lyam stood with him for several
moments, listening to their retreating footsteps. A
moment or two later, when it was safe to talk, Lyam in-
spected the hallway briefly then closed the door.
"So when did you have time to replace Alaire's pos-
sessions with someone else's?" Naitachal asked,
folding his arms over his chest. "I wish I'd known; I
might have been able to do something useful."
"I didn't. Little Erik did. We can trust him, he's
working for me. If I had more time to warn you, it
wouldn't have been necessary to give him that ring,"
Lyam said, his face grim. "As for your predicament, I
can arrange safe passage on a ship for you and Alaire.
It will have to be tonight, because tomorrow will be
too late. They will have found the justification by then
to put you in the dungeon with Kai."
The Dark Elf frowned. "I am more concerned with
the state of affairs between Althea and Suinomen. If I
leave, there will be war. My mission here was to pre-
vent it."
Captain Lyam shook his head, and his expression
grew even darker. "Your mission was doomed from the
beginning. War with Althea is inevitable at this point,
I'm afraid Getting you two home is the only way King
Reynard will know that Sir Jehan is behind this sad
folly."
Naitachal let out his breath in a sigh. At least there
was one person still in a position of power that was not
Jehan's man. "Do you know where Alaire is?"
"No, but Kai does," Lyam replied confidently.
"He'll tell me. And if you would like, I can recover that
ring for you."
"Oh, don't bother. It wasn't Alaire's," Naitachal said,
with a sly grin. "It belonged to my father. I do think
the relic of a long-dead master Necromancer will
muck up Soren's search spell in very interesting and
entertaining ways. It will eventually find its way back
to me, all by itself."
He leaned back, studying Captain Lyam closely
without appearing to. Can I trust this man? he won-
dered. Is there something peculiar about his total
commitment to returning us to Althea, when he has
everything to lose?
"Why are you doing this, Captain?" the elf asked at
last
"You're wondering why I'm sacrificing everything."
Lyam dropped his masks for the first time since Nai-
tachal met him. He looked old; old, tired and
defeated. "Well actually, I'm sacrificing very little. One
of Sir Jehan's nephews is about to replace me as Cap-
tain. My next post is to be a remote wasteland in the
north. It stays dark for months at a time, and it's not a
place where anyone would ever go willingly. I'm ready
for a career change and a change of climate. I would
rather return to Althea with you, on the whole. If nec-
essary, I could find work as a mercenary." He sighed.
"I cannot save my King or my country. I might as well
save myself."
"That I can accept," the elf said. "What about this
blockade I've heard about from Erik? Will that be a
problem?"
The Captain shook his head. "You forget who I am
— however temporary my power may be. In the late
hours, when they have the green recruits watching the
port, I will have no trouble impressing them with my
rank. We can get through with no trouble."
"And the ship," Naitachal persisted. "Is one ready to
sail?"
"There is an Arachnean-owned ship, crewed by
humans, that is due to leave in the morning. A trader,
loaded with dieren goods." Lyam seemed to have
thought of everything — there were few even in this
kingdom who would care to interfere with the trade of
Arachneans. "If you explained who you were, perhaps
they would leave a little early."
Naitachal smiled grimly. "That shouldn't be diffi-
cult, given my heritage." Most traders would probably
be ambivalent about the troubles of an Ambassador
and a Prince, since most had more loyalty to their
trade than to the Crown of Althea. But no one would
risk the anger of a Dark Elf, since so many of them
were Necromancers, and those that were not, were
formidable warriors.
If they refuse to take us, I will be very, very angry.
"If you can find out where Alaire is and get us as far as
the port, you have a deal. I will get us the rest of the
way."
"Deal," Lyam said. They shook on it.
The skies remained overcast, but didn't shed any-
more snow on the already blanketed ground. At noon,
and again at suppertime, Erik brought meals on the
cart, bearing no new information to Naitachal. After
dinner Lyam put a young recruit, a lad of about seven-
teen, on guard duty. The Captain said that he had
been pulling double guard duty, and was likely to fall
asleep around midnight. The Captain disappeared
around dusk, to gain access to the dungeon and have a
little talk with Kai.
Shortly after midnight, Erik appeared for the last
time to take the food cart away.
"This time, you get to ride out inside it," he whis-
pered. "You're leaving now. We know where Alaire is.
Guards asleep, but Cap'n Lyam said to take no
chances. Put a bundle in the bed to look like you. I'm
taking you down to the kitchen. This way no one sees
you."
"Inside this?" Naitachal asked, regarding the cart
doubtfully. He sighed and, taking only his sword and
harp, squeezed into the cramped space of the cart. A
tight fit, but manageable; Erik draped the cloth on
either side, opened the door, and rolled him out
The trek was uneventful until just before Erik
pushed him onto the dumbwaiter; Naitachal recog-
nized Paavo's voice, and they chattered in their native
language, for some time. Then Paavo walked off, and
Erik rolled the cart into the tiny elevator, and
moments later he had descended to the brightness of
the kitchen. Oil lamps illuminated the now cleaned
and polished palace kitchen, empty of staff at this hour
save for Erik and Captain Lyam.
"Hurry. This way," Lyam said, ushering the Dark
Elf out the back door to a waiting carriage. Erik bun-
dled up in a heavy dieren coat and a fur hat and
jumped into the driver's seat, while Lyam tucked Nai-
tachal's weapons under the seat, and threw a black
cloth over him.
"With any luck, they won't see you. Duck down to
the floor when I say," Lyam said urgently. "Not much
going on this time of night. The most difficult part was
getting to the kitchen. Did you have any trouble?"
How would I know what was trouble, unless it
arrested me? "Paavo stopped Erik to talk about some-
thing. I don't think he knew what was going on."
"Dammit all," Lyam muttered. "That might have
blown the whole thing." He leaned out the window.
"Erik, let's go now."
The carriage lurched forward, and Lyam told the elf
to get down. "Best not to take any chances."
They traveled for a short distance before they
stopped, presumably at the outer wall. Naitachal
stayed close to the floor, flattening himself against it
like a cat. Outside, he heard several voices, speaking
the strange Suinomen dialect, to which Lyam
responded. Then they were moving again.
"That was too easy," Captain Lyam said, his tone
very uncomfortable. "I'm not sure if we should go on."
"What choice do we have?" Naitachal asked, from
beneath his drapery. "I'm already gone. We're free of
the palace. Is anyone pursuing us?"
He heard Lyam shift in his seat. "It may be difficult
to tell. A professional is always hard to spot. But I sup-
pose you are right, we are past the point of no return."
Naitachal squirmed uncomfortably. "Is it safe to sit
up?"
"For now," Lyam said, and Naitachal got up off the
floor and seated himself across from the Captain,
rearranging his black drapery. "Perhaps their guard
was down; after all, the Prince is back in the dungeon,
and the real search is taking place in town. We will
have to be careful once we get closer to the tavern
district."
Trees quickly gave way to brick buildings, tile roofs,
the rock walls of the larger estates, all towering over
the carriage.
"So where is Alaire hiding?" Naitachal asked, curi-
ously, wishing there were some way to ease the knot of
tension in his back and neck.
Lyam rubbed an old scar nervously. "A place called
The Dead Dragon Inn. The owner is hiding him in the
basement. Kai did well, putting him there. The owner
is a good friend and dislikes the Crown for the taxes
they weigh against the taverns. With the Swords of the
Association wandering about down there, that would
be the safest place to hide."
Provided that the reward does not tempt him to
regain some of the money gone in taxes, Naitachal
added, but only to himself. And provided that the
owner is not aware that his "protector and friend" is
currently languishing in the King's dungeon.
Chapter XVI
Alaire emerged slowly from a deep, but restless,
sleep. A confused and disturbing dream melted away
as he became aware of his surroundings. First, the
lumpy hay mattress, then the dank, musty odor of the
room and finally the warmth and the humidity, and
the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. He
opened his eyes and tried to focus. The room was
dark except for the orange glow of the stove.
He sat suddenly upright, banging his head on the
bunk bed above him; the sudden pain forced more
wakefulness into his stiff body, his slow, numb mind.
Where am I? was his only thought.
Loud tavern sounds filtering down through the ceil-
ing answered his question. I'm under The Dead
Dragon Inn. Kai brought me here.
The room had no windows, which added to his
confusion. Uncertain how long he'd slept, he didn't
know if it was day or night.
What about Kai? he thought, with a sick suspicion
that something terrible had happened to him. And my
Master. Naitachal, what are you up to right now?
He felt exhausted despite the long, deep sleep. The
spell. Right. I've never reached that far, that deep for
the energies before. Naitachal told me of mages who
reached too far, even after years of experience, and
scorched their own minds with energies too powerful
for even them to handle.
His raging headache was a good indication he'd
done the same thing, on a smaller scale. What should I
expect? The spell turned back death. It reassembled
flesh, it restored blood. Looks like my head is going to
pay dearly for it now.
He must have slept all day, and he was tempted to
go ahead and sleep another day, but something told
him it was time to get up, that something was afoot.
The Swords of the Association are all over the place by
now, he thought. Would they ever think to look down
here?
Evidently, they hadn't yet. The sounds overhead,
the singing, the stamping of feet, indicated the tavern
was open and doing business, meaning it had to be
night. He reached under the bed to make certain his
harp was still there; it was, along with his other posses-
sions. Kai must have left as soon as I was asleep, he
thought. Gotten must be upstairs working. So that left
him with one question. What am I to do now?
He remembered that Kai had warned him they had
to destroy the old clothes as soon as possible, and
groped under his bed for the bag that held them, find-
ing it by touch alone. He tossed the canvas sack with
the bloodied garments into the stove, then added
more wood to it. In moments a raging tire burned,
destroying the evidence. The wool clothing stank as it
burned, but it was something he was going to have to
put up with.
As the stove crackled and popped and the light
increased, his eyes fell on a crude oak table, and the
food left for him.
Well, they aren't taking too bad care of me, I guess.
Though his head hurt, his stomach was in good shape,
and complaining bitterly about how little he had been
putting into it lately. The food they'd left him wasn't
bad; a plate of meats, cheeses and a warm stein of ale.
There was also a kettle, a mug with dried herbs, and a
rough note scribbled on a piece of parchment. He had
to hold it up to the light of the now-blazing stove to
make it out:
Alar,
Ki sed you wood haf a baad hed wen you wok up,
so i lef a mug o willow
Gallen
Alaire read the note twice before he understood
what the barkeep was trying to tell him. "A remedy, for
exactly what I have now," he thought with gratitude,
although the remedy sounded a little dubious. He set
the kettle on the stove to heat up. "Willow bark," he
said to the mug, without much conviction. "Right now
I'd try anything."
Waiting for the water to boil, Alaire stretched and
scratched. He felt grungy, particularly after sleeping in
his clothes; a hot bath would be really nice right now.
But the only hot bath he knew of was at the palace; it
might as well have been in Althea.
Not bloody likely they'd let me get a bath if I went
back to the palace now, he thought dismally. Gods, a
good-long soak would be heavenly. Or maybe an hour
in that sowna Now that was a great bathing invention!
A loud clatter came from up the staircase, followed
by voices and footsteps. His heart leapt into his throat,
and every nerve felt afire.
Oh gods — they've found me!
Alaire jumped to his feet and reached for his blade,
and stood beside the entrance to the small chamber, in
the shadows. A desperate measure; but that was all he
had left, were desperation measures.
The group of three, he guessed by the footsteps,
approached the chamber without talking. His heart
was beating so hard he might just as well have been
running.
Closer. Closer.
He now wished he hadn't thrown more wood on
the fire, since the flames were climbing within the lit-
tle stove, casting bright light, making it impossible to
hide. He took cover in the little pool of shadow next to
the bunk. The intruders drew nearer.
A shadow entered the room. No, not a shadow —
the Dark Elf.
"Naitachal?" Alaire said incredulously, sword still
raised and ready. His Master had been the last person
he'd expected to see!
He relaxed until Lyam walked into the room, grip-
ping the hilt of his sword tighter as the huge man's
eyes met his.
"Lyam is on our side," the elf said simply. "How-
ever, there is a complication."
"Oh gods, what now?" Alaire asked although he
didn't want to hear it.
"I'll be goin' back up, now," Gallen, the third person
to come in, said. "You mind that tea, it will take care of
that headache real quick. And I'll let you know when
those chaps are through snooping around. The sooner
you're out of here the better for all of us!" The bar-
keep trotted back up the stairs and shut the door.
"We won't be leaving right away," Lyam said, taking
a seat on the edge of the bunk, looking as exhausted as
Alaire felt. "There are a couple of Swords nosing
around upstairs. More likely they're looking to cadge a
few free drinks, but we can't take the chance that they
might spot us."
"Swords?" Alaire said, alarmed. "Here?" He looked
around frantically, half expecting the Swords to appear
at any moment.
Naitachal laughed softly as he motioned to Alaire to
take a seat, and began an examination, first checking
his eyes, and then feeling over his forehead and scalp.
"Nasty bump there. Recent." He glanced over at the
bunkbed Lyam was sitting on. "Didn't know where
you were when you woke up? You sat up too fast?"
"You can tell all that by a bump?" Alaire replied, a
little sullenly. "They should have you tell fortunes by
bumps at court, I'm sure it would be very amusing."
Naitachal didn't seem annoyed by his attitude.
"Nasty mood, too. You must have a headache, given
the sort of spell-casting you've been up to."
It almost sounded like an accusation. Well, if he
hadn't done what he'd done — they wouldn't be in
this predicament. "I don't want to talk about it," Alaire
said. "Kai would have died had I done nothing."
Naitachal shrugged. "I don't doubt that at all. I'd
like you to tell me about it, if you would. It has a bear-
ing on your ability, after all."
Slowly, Alaire told him the whole story of the assas-
sins, Kai's fatal wound, and the Bardic Magic he raised
to save his life. Naitachal listened quietly, nodding
occasionally as he poured the hot water over the wil-
low bark.
"Well. You certainly are a credit to my training,"
Naitachal said, handing him the steaming mug. "I
would have shown you ways to protect yourself a little
better, had I known you were that far along. As it was,
you fully exposed your mind to everything you were
pulling in, and that's the reason for your headache. I
know exactly what it feels like. My head isn't that dif-
ferent from a human's. What you did was right, Alaire,
even if it did create problems for the rest of us."
In a way, Naitachal's reaction made it all worse.
"But I messed things up so badly!" Alaire wailed. "We
were here to try to prevent a war. Now I've probably
started one."
"Don't blame yourself, Alaire," Lyam said, trying to
soothe him. "Sir Jehan had already made certain there
would be a war before you ever arrived. You are not to
blame. You simply became a convenient excuse for
what he wanted to do anyway." Then he explained Sir
Jehan's machinations.
But that left Alaire with a number of unanswered
questions — one of which was very important.
"What about Kai?" Alaire asked, hesitantly.
"They've got him now, don't they? What happened
when he got to his father?"
Captain Lyam answered, not Naitachal; his face and
voice completely expressionless. "He tried to explain
what happened. Kai's word was against Jehan's; he had
little credibility and his father, of course, didn't believe
him. They put him in shackles and sent him to the
dungeon. They charged him with treason, with con-
spiracy involving mages sent by Althea to overthrow
his father."
"The dungeon?" Alaire said, his eyes darting back
and forth between his Master's and the Captain's.
"Now they're looking for me. It's me they want! We
can't go off and leave Kai in prison!"
"And what do you propose we do?" Naitachal said
softly. "We barely got out of there ourselves, and that
was only because Captain Lyam was my jailer."
Alaire shook his head vehemently. "I don't care. We
have to go back. Kai saved my life when he brought
me down here."
"Which would make you about even, hmm?" Nai-
tachal said shrewdly. "You saved his life, and put your
own in jeopardy by performing magic; he saved yours
by hiding you. The scales balance, in my opinion."
'There's nothing we can do, Alaire," Lyam said
sadly. "Sir Jehan is just too powerful right now. He had
the King eating out of his hands, and it would take a
miracle to change that. If you go back to try to save
Kai, and fail, do you know what will be waiting for you
then?"
"Yes, I know," Alaire said sadly. "Prison of Souls."
"You do not want to go there," Lyam replied,
emphatically. "Kai's fate won't be nearly as terrible.
Trust me, his father will not deliver him to the usual
fate of traitors. He'll probably be disowned and made
into a slave, under Paavo. Slavery is the usual fate of
those traitors who are not considered clever enough to
be dangerous." He coughed, embarrassed. "Jehan will
probably urge this very move on the King. He would
obtain far more enjoyment out of seeing Kai shining
his boots than swinging at the end of a rope."
Alaire could not imagine this.
"Kai will never serve anyone but himself," Naitachal
said. "I've seen enough of the boy to make that predic-
tion."
"But you're wrong," Alaire protested. "He's
changed. No, really! He's not the same. When I
brought him back, he saw how close he was to dying.
Something happened to him, I'm not sure what." He
groped after the words he needed to describe Kai's
transformation, but failed to find them.
"Which is all moot, at this point," Naitachal said.
"We can't go back. It would be the three of us against
the entire Royal Guard and King's mages, and the
Swords. We don't have a chance against them.
Alaire slumped, and put his head in his hands. "I
guess you're right But how do you plan on getting us
out of here?" Alaire downed more of the tea, which
helped his headache tremendously. "What's going to
happen to you, Captain?"
"I am going with you, young man," Lyam said, wea-
rily. "I've burned my bridges to get Naitachal here.
They'll be offering a price for my head as soon as they
realize I'm gone, and who I took with me." He
scratched his chin, reflecting. "I hope they don't go too
hard on that boy I put in charge of guarding you."
"I'm more concerned about Erik," Naitachal said.
"They knew he was driving the carriage when we left."
"That's something I haven't told you yet," Lyam said
reluctantly. "He's going with us too. You see, Erik's my
son, in spite of the tale he spun for you about a teacher
and the House of Lieslund. More like House of
Lyam." He beamed proudly, despite his obvious
worry. "Right now, he's leaving the carriage some-
where on the other side of the tavern district, to throw
the Swords off, and will meet us at the dock."
Alaire looked up, surprised. "We're going by ship?"
"No other way," Naitachal said. "An Arachnean
trader, by the looks of it. The problem will be getting
to it. Sir Jehan sealed the docks."
"Speaking of which, shouldn't we be getting out of
here?" Lyam said, standing, with a visible effort. "If we
wait too long, my rank isn't going to carry much weight
with anyone. I won't have a rank. Or a life."
Gallen came puffing back down the stairs, wiping
sweat off his forehead. "Looks like the Swords are
gone," Gallen said. "But I'd be careful. They went
north, towards the palace."
"Good," Lyam said, loosening his sword in its
sheathe. "We're going —"
"Don't tell me!" Gallen said, holding fingers in both
ears. "I don't want to know. Now you three, you'd bet-
ter get on before someone else comes looking for
you."
"My thoughts exactly," Naitachal said, helping
Alaire to his feet. "Are you ready?"
The movement renewed his headache, which
pounded in both temples and put a tight band of pain
across his brow. "As I'm going to be," he groaned in reply.
They took the dark and half-hidden secondary
alleys instead of the highly visible, lamplit streets.
Lyam remained wary, leading the way with a drawn
dagger, checking each shadow for a potential attacker.
The snow had turned to a thick gray mush in the al-
leys. Alaire had gotten a little more accustomed to the
slippery stuff in the short time he had been in Suino-
men, and Naitachal, graceful as a cat, predictably had
no problems with it at all.
Alaire couldn't stop thinking about Kai, and what
was going to happen to him. He didn't believe Lyam's
story about slavery; despite the elaborate explanation,
he knew it was nothing more than a story to make him
— and possibly even Lyam himself — feel better.
Most likely the King would sentence him to die, given
the circumstances. He doubted Lyam's motives in
helping them. There's something in this for him, and
we don't know what it is yet.
Still, Naitachal had always been a good judge of
character. Granted that he probably had little choice
in the people willing to help him escape from the pal-
ace, Alaire didn't think the Dark Elf would permit
Lyam to join them if he had any doubts about the
Captains trustworthiness and veracity.
Kai was going back to try to dear me. Instead, they
arrested him, and will probably execute him. And
there isn't a thing I can do about it.
Logic told him there was no going back, that the
only thing left for them to do was to return to Althea
with what they'd learned. But Alaire found himself
walking a little slower when he thought about the
Prince and his fate, as if the palace was a magnet,
drawing him back. If I explained to Naitachal how I
felt about this — Surely I can do something to help
him! After all, I'm not what they think I am, my father
is the King of Althea. Now that I think about it, Nai-
tachal is technically my underling, not the other way
around. If it actually came to that, if I put my foot
down, pointed out that I was, after all, Althean roy-
alty, would he back down and agree to rescue Kai?
This was not something he really wanted to do, and
not a course of action he took lightly. He watched Nai-
tachal furtively as they passed through the alleys, and
everything he saw in the elf's face told him he wanted
to get home.
Not likely to work, Alaire thought. I've never
thrown my weight around like that before, and if I did
now, it would create a rift between us that might never
mend. If we return to Althea, I will still have to live
with him. Or else find another Bardic Master. Bight.
Bardic Masters don't exactly grow on trees — and
who would take me if I pulled rank on Naitachal No
one, that's who.
The network of alleys took them out of the tavern
district to a small residential district of peasants
homes. The place was definitely the poor side of town,
complete with raw sewage in the gutters, piles of
refuse beside the street, and large, hungry-looking
rats; the likes of them strolling through this cesspool
raised no eyebrows. A young gang of adolescents pre-
tending to be rough threw some insults in their
direction, but made no serious attack. Lyam ignored
them, then laughed shortly as soon as they were out of
earshot. "That might have been me, thirty years ago,"
he said, shaking his head reminiscently.
The smell of the sea became stronger, and Alaire
knew they were closer to the bay. Lyam held a hand
up, signaling danger. Without a word, the three of
them took cover in the remains of a burned-out house.
As they crouched behind the remains of a wall, ice-
covered and ready to fall at a breath, two mounted
dieren trotted down the main street, several paces
away.
Swords. There was no mistaking those uniforms.
The two Swords, a larger, older one and a younger
man, perhaps a student, pulled their dieren to a halt
and looked around. Naitachal, Alaire and Lyam
crouched even lower, keeping as still as possible. Their
hiding place was not a good one. If the Swords looked
closely they would probably see someone skulking
there.
Lyam's left foot began slipping; to avoid falling, he
shifted his weight to the other foot. In so doing, he
inadvertently pulled it free of the mud and slush. The
sucking sound was terribly loud in the still night air.
Alaire cringed. He clutched the wanning hilt of his
sword so hard it hurt.
But the Swords just looked around, without paying
any attention to the sound. Evidently they expected to
hear things like that. After several long moments, the
riders resumed their journey.
As soon as they were gone, Lyam motioned Alaire
and Naitachal to come closer. They put their heads so
closely together the steam of their breath mingled into
a single plume. "We're not far from the dock. My men
are closer to the piers. They're not likely to recognize
you, but the Swords, if they happen by again, will. Be
ready to hide." He checked the street, and declared
the way clear.
Along the pier were a few noisy taverns, catering
mainly to sailors. Not people who would know of the
crisis in the palace, or care even if they heard. Until, of
course, whatever the King did up the hill affected
them, personally. Perhaps the Arachnean sailors are
here, he thought. If I listen, maybe I'll hear the right
accent.
But this was not the Captain's destination. Lyam led
them past these taverns to the edge of the pier, a long
shelf of stone constructed along a rocky shore, with
tongues of wood sticking out into the bay. Alaire stiff-
ened when he saw the three Royal Guardsmen,
standing casually at the end of the pier.
But then he realized that three men were not
enough to patrol the area effectively — not if they
were expected to look for fugitives. Is this what they
call sealing the port? Alaire wondered. He had imag-
ined legions of Royal Guardsmen on the alert,
watching the pier, patrolling the side streets in num-
bers. But no, there were only the three, one of whom
seemed to be half-asleep. All the better for us, Alaire
thought. And for the first time, he began to have some
confidence in the Captain's plan of escape.
Lyam led them to the pier boldly, as if he was
escorting a couple of sightseers on an evening expedi-
tion. When the three guards saw Captain Lyam
approaching, all three leaped to attention, the drowsy
one visibly trying to feign alertness.
"At ease," Lyam said. The three young soldiers were
clearly nervous. Apparently Lyam caught them doing
something they shouldn't while on duty: relaxing. "Any
sign of trouble tonight?"
"None, sir," the largest, and apparently eldest,
reported. "The night has been quiet."
"Indeed," Lyam said thoughtfully. "Chances are, it
will stay that way. The search for the renegade magi-
cian has concentrated in the tavern district. Reports of
sightings have all come from there. Nevertheless, stay
at your post until further notice. We are going to
inspect the docks."
"Yes, sir," the soldiers said, in unison. Lyam and his
party of two proceeded unhindered. It was that easy.
Under the full moon Alaire saw a long row of dark,
lifeless ships moored to the wooden piers. Apparently
their crews were down below, or in the taverns. Must
be later than I thought.
"Erik should already be here," Lyam said, but worry
was evident in his voice. Then, from a shadow beside
them, sprung a small shape.
Erik grinned up at them, spirits undampened.
"Here I am, Father," he said with his high-pitched
voice. "The Arachnean ship is at the very end. It's a
schooner, with a wooden lady up front."
His father smiled. "Very well, then," Lyam said.
"Shall we proceed, gentlemen?'
Alaire should have felt exhilarated at this point, but
something was keeping him from any such emotion.
Partly, he thought, this was because Kai was
doomed —
But partly he had a horrible feeling that something
was wrong with this escape, that Lyam had overlooked
something. The dock seemed impossibly long in the
moonlight, but the sea was calm, with only a mild
breeze in the air. Water lapped lightly against the
dock.
In the bright moonlight he caught a glimpse of Nai-
tachal, clutching his harp, his expression grim. Their
eyes met briefly, and Alaire knew that he, too, felt
impending doom. Alaire reached under his cloak and
clutched the hilt of his blade again. It was still warm.
Then Naitachal stopped walking. Lyam looked
back, with a questioning look. Alaire paused also, turn-
ing to see what, if anything, was following them.
"What's wrong?" Captain Lyam asked. "Did you
hear something?"
"This isn't right," Naitachal replied in a whisper.
"What isn't right?" Lyam responded, impatiently.
Naitachal shook his head. "I don't know. A missing
piece of this picture. Just a... strong sense that some-
thing's not quite right."
Lyam frowned, glanced down the dock, towards the
ship, then back to Naitachal. "Would you like me to go
on and hail the ship?'
Again, the Dark Elf shook his head. "No. Just stand
here. Make no noise."
The four of them stood on the dock in perfect
silence; Alaire studied the ships, all seemingly empty,
abandoned
Captain Lyam was impatient "I don't hear any-
thing," he said, clearly anxious to get going. "Our ship
is near. I think we should go to it at once."
There is no sound. That's the problem, Alaire sud-
denly realized. There should be card playing, there
should be drinking, there should be at least a watch.
But all the decks were empty. There was not a sailor in
sight. Even the lamps for the nightwatch were dark.
No one. Nothing.
From one of the ships came a low, ominous laugh.
All three drew their swords, on an enemy who hadn't
made himself visible yet.
"Did you really think you were going to just sail out
of here, without a problem?" came the unmistakable
voice of Sir Jehan.
A moment later, Jehan stepped out of the shadows,
onto the deck of the nearest ship, alone. "Ah. I see
you've done me the favor of finding our young magi-
cian, Captain Lyam. Decided to turn traitor, did you?"
Lyam stood firm, his face set in a cold mask of
anger. "Did you think you were going to maneuver the
King into a war with Althea, with no one noticing?"
Sir Jehan didn't answer right away. For a moment
he looked doubtful, unsure. The reply must have sur-
prised him, because it was some time before he
regained his composure.
"Why, war is the last thing I want with Althea," he
replied, bowing sardonically to Naitachal. "However,
we made it clear to the Ambassador that we would
consider any attempt to leave the kingdom an act of
war. I suspect this is exactly what the Ambassador has
in mind right now."
"You do not consider keeping an Ambassador pris-
oner an act of war here?" Naitachal said evenly.
Jehan shrugged. "That was only a formality, until we
clarified the situation. You made a big mistake by leav-
ing the palace, Ambassador. By doing so you have
implicated yourself in this sad state of affairs."
"It's not his fault," Lyam said. "I convinced him that
he was in danger. For my own purposes, I assure you."
Alaire blinked, surprised at that answer. The Captain
was actually trying to protect them!
Jehan shook his head with mock-sadness. "I wish I
believed that. I really do. Clearly, you have betrayed
the King. But the Ambassador is responsible for his
own actions. And as for you, Lyam, you have neither
rank nor friends to protect you. You will hang for this."
Alaire scanned the dock for Sir Jehan's men. No
one. If we made a run for it now...
Sir Jehan continued, his tone and posture com-
pletely casual, as if they were discussing some trivial
matter over tea. "I must admit, Captain, that you have
done the kingdom a service by rounding up both the
Ambassador and his criminal servant. This will save us
a great deal of time. Now, if you would be so kind as to
drop your weapons, my men will escort you back to
the castle."
"I don't think so," Lyam said, whispering something
to his son. The boy took off running, and vanished
over the edge of the dock without a sound.
"Where are his men?" Lyam whispered Alaire was
looking too — Sir Jehan wasn't planning to take them
alone, was he?
Behind them, two Royal Guardsmen surfaced from
the ship's hold. Then two more, from the ship Sir
Jehan stood upon.
"You make it difficult for yourselves," Sir Jehan said
indifferently. Addressing his men, he waved in their
general direction. "Take them," he said indifferently.
"But don't kill them."
The two on Lyam's end charged, and the big Cap-
tain engaged them both, handily; Alaire charged the
one that came for him, surprising him with his quick
defense. Swords clashed in the moonlight; Alaire
knew he had nothing to lose, and took chances he nor-
mally wouldn't have. The man he fought still valued
his life, and was clearly under orders not to take one;
Alaire took full advantage of this situation. A strange
sort of excitement came over him, and he laughed
recklessly, startling his opponent considerably.
He thrust once, twice, leaving himself vulnerable
both times. In so doing, Alaire managed to slice the
leather armor on his opponents right arm. The pieces
fell, and Alaire struck without thinking.
Blood spurted, forcing the wounded man to drop
his sword. His first instinct was to kill the man —
No. Not another death! Instead, he rushed at the
wounded Guard, and pushed him over the dock's
edge. The Guard hit the water, with a scream and
gratifying splash.
Alaire turned, only to find that already there were
others to replace him, dozens more, pouring off the
ships like hungry ants. The narrow dock limited how
many came at him at once, and he fought each one as
they came within reach.
It was a downhill battle, there was no mistaking it,
and he began to loose some of his energy and reckless
abandon. Should I die now, or go to this thrice-
damned Prison of Souls?
The impulse was to die now; a clean death, and not
a slow wasting away, trapped by magic. He swung
wildly with the sword, leaving his midsection open,
then he swung again against three guardsmen, who all
stepped backwards.
They collided with each other, suddenly leaving a
space between two of them.
He seized the moment by shoving through them,
screaming a hideous battle cry.
Before he reached the end of the dock, four more
guardsmen stepped in front of him, bearing shields.
The wild sword swing wouldn't work here. Behind
them were three more, aiming at his chest with cross-
bows.
In his head a voice spoke, urging him, wait until the
odds are in your favor, then try for escape. Nobody
ever won by dying. He glanced wildly about, looking
for an escape. There wasn't one.
Abruptly, his energy ran out, and he gave up,
deflated. He threw his sword down on the dock,
where it landed with a dull thud.
From behind him came two sets of arms, one
wielding a dagger, placed near his throat. The metal
bit into his windpipe. A sudden move, and it would cut
into a major artery. For the moment, the desire to live
overcame his fear of the Prison.
He dropped his arms to his sides and stopped moving.
Thick arms grabbed his wrists, pulling them behind
his back. Shackles closed around them, and the cluster
of guardsmen pushed him back up the dock, towards
Naitachal. Lyam was nowhere in sight. Four Royal
Guardsmen had surrounded Naitachal. With blinding
speed the Dark Elf deflected the blades, giving no
hint of backing down.
"It's useless to continue," Sir Jehan said lazily from
his safe haven on the ship. "Look, we've captured your
secretary. Give up, while he still lives."
At the far end of the dock, a score or more of Royal
Guardsmen lined up, wielding a mixture of swords
and crossbows. They charged Naitachal.
When the elf saw what was coming for him, he
raised his hands, and closed his eyes.
The guardsmen saw this and froze, confused and
afraid; they must have known what a Dark Elf was.
Alaire struggled against the cold metal against his
throat. A hand closed over his mouth.
He's going to raise Bardic Magic, Alaire thought,
knowing that Naitachal was good enough to do so
without needing an instrument. It hadn't occurred to
him to do the same, before they shackled his hands;
for him it took time and undisturbed concentration to
raise any useful power, neither of which he had as the
guardsmen attacked him. The instrument still hung at
his back, but he had no way of using it.
The three holding Alaire pushed him closer to the
elf, the knife biting into his neck, a sudden sting of pain,
followed by the warm trickle of blood down his throat.
These idiots are going to kill me by accident if they
don't watch out! he wanted to scream. What is Nai-
tachal trying to do? What sort of spell would get us out
of this?
But he hadn't begun the spell yet; hadn't even
begun to sing a single note.
Sir Jehan seemed to recognize what the elf was
about to do, however. "Stop what you're doing! Put
your hands on your head! Or your servant will die right
here on this dock!"
Eyes closed, lost in concentration, Naitachal stood
motionless. The air about him began to hum.
"Stop it, Necromancer!"
His eyes fluttered open just long enough to see
Alaire, with the knife at his throat. The elf paused, his
black hand barely beginning to glow.
"On second thought," Sir Jehan said, smugly. "Go
ahead and cast a spell. Raise the magic. Break our
laws! It would give me a reason to throw you in the
Prison of Souls along with Alaire!"
Alaire bit into his captor's hand, and in the moment
it pulled away he screamed, "No! Don't do it, Master!"
The knife cut deeper into his throat. More blood trick-
led down his neck. The hand closed over his mouth
again.
The guards surrounded the Dark Elf with cross-
bows carefully aimed in his direction. He heard a
scuffle, then rattling shackles. They hurried Alaire off
the dock to a crude wagon. Bolted to the floor of this
was a series of iron rings. They made him lie down,
belly first, and his chains rattled as his captors locked
his shackles into place. He looked up at the sound of a
footstep, and saw Soren, the fat wizard, holding a little
wooden club.
Powerless oaf can't even use a spell to immobilize
me, he has to use fetters!
A brief discussion in the Suinomen tongue fol-
lowed. Soren climbed onto the wagon and stood
directly above him. Then, light and agonizing pain
exploded at the base of Alaire's skull, and he knew no
more.
Chapter XVII
"Stop it, Necromancer!" Sir Jehan screamed at the
Dark Elf.
Naitachal's instinct was to ignore a command, any
command, especially when trying to concentrate on
raising magic. Why should I? he thought, torn
between complying with the demand, and blasting
Sir Jehan and his men into the sea with Bardic
energy.
But this was Suinomen, and they were renegades,
and now both he and Alaire were in serious danger.
He opened his eyes and saw the Royal Guardsmen
holding Alaire, with a dagger at his throat.
They had the boy. The game was over.
Defeat and despair settled over him as he accepted
whatever fate Sir Jehan had for both of them. There
was no way to raise enough power, even Bardic power,
in time to do any of them any good. It looked like
they'd even nicked the boy a bit already.
But he didn't drop the harp; he set it down, care-
fully, so as not to scratch it, and stood solemnly.
The guardsmen swarmed around him. Those who
did not bring crossbows to bear on him shackled his
hands and feet, and pushed him towards Sir Jehan.
One of them picked up the harp, holding it gingerly, as
if he thought it might come to fife in his hands.
Naitachal stood calmly before Sir Jehan, who
remained on the ship. He avoided meeting the elf's
eyes. He threw his men a black cloth. "Blindfold him,"
he said simply.
He said nothing as they put the cloth over his face.
It's the King who I must speak with again. I have not
used magic, though it is obvious Alaire has. If there's
any chance I am immune diplomatically, somehow —
The guardsmen shoved him forward. The rattle of a
wagon or carriage pulled up in front of him, followed
by the creaking of a steel door. They threw him into
the back of whatever had arrived, and he landed in a
heap on a cold, iron floor. There's someone in here
with me, he sensed. Behind him, the door slammed
shut, followed by the sound of a key turning a lock.
They started off immediately as the Dark Elf strug-
gled to sit up in the lurching wagon. Strong hands
assisted him, and when he was sitting against the wall,
someone pulled the blindfold off his face.
"Lyam," Naitachal whispered. Even in the darkness
of their moving prison, he saw the Captain's outline.
There were windows on three sides of the iron box,
which allowed moonlight, and cold, in.
"They took Alaire in another wagon," Lyam said
dismally. "The Swords have him now. I think my son
got away before the troops moved in. I can only hope."
Lyam looked directly at the Dark Elf, his face full of
apology. "I'm sorry I got you into this. I had no idea Sir
Jehan was this clever."
"Nor I," Naitachal said. "I admit, we are running
out of options. But as long as I still breathe, all is not
lost."
Lyam's look was of disbelief. "No?" he said wearily,
running a hand through grimy, tousled hair. His own
shackles clanked loudly against his chest. "What
options have we left?"
Naitachal glanced out the back of the wagon. A
hundred or so Royal Guardsmen were following
closely behind on dieren, a shifting, moving thunder-
ing shadow blanketing the road. "I don't suppose
picking that lock would be very productive," he said
"No," Lyam admitted. "I think someone might
notice."
This would be amusing, if our deaths weren't immi-
nent. "It seems odd they would shackle us, and then
not chain us to something else."
"They know we can't go far with these," Lyam said.
"Had no idea how heavy these were," he added, lifting
the chains with some difficulty. "You were saying?
Options?"
"I'm still the Ambassador of Althea," Naitachal said
stubbornly. "That must count for something."
Lyam stared at him. His expression was for a
moment unreadable. Then his face broke into a smile,
followed by loud, bellowing laughter. "Oh are you
now?" Lyam said, when he paused long enough to
speak. "You've just been taken prisoner. You're wear-
ing chains. Do you think it matters what your official
office is in Althea? In Suinomen, you're a prisoner.
And a non-human one, at that."
"And what bearing does being non-human have on
this?"
Lyam grew serious. "These days, it means instant
death, usually. Elves, fairies, dwarves, Arachnids, any-
one who isn't human, simply are not taken prisoner.
They are conveniently killed 'trying to escape.' That
they haven't bothered to eliminate you already is a
good sign, I suppose."
Naitachal leaned back against the side of the wagon
and tried to think. "So what do you think is going to
happen now? Any ideas?"
"Well, for starters," Lyam said, scratching his chin
thoughtfully, "Alaire's on his way to the Prison of Souls.
No doubt about that. He's been tried, convicted, and
sentenced already, in his absence. And, let's see, I'll
probably be executed. Hanging is the preferred
method, although given the circumstances, Sir Jehan
might arrange something a little more private in the
dungeon. It will depend on the King's mood. As for
Kai, I doubt he's still alive. He's probably already been
executed."
Naitachal was amazed at the offhanded way the
Captain discussed his impending demise. Then again,
this man was no stranger to death.
"And your son?" the elf asked.
"No one in the palace knows he's my son. To them,
he's just another servant child." He turned and gave
Naitachal a threatening look. "And if you tell them he
is, or it accidentally slips out of those black lips of
yours, I'll personally kill you myself."
Naitachal shrugged, deciding not to take offense at
the remark. "What I meant is, how can he help us?"
"Help? Against the Royal Guard or the Swords?"
Lyam uttered a short, humorless laugh. "Not much,
I'm afraid. He's only thirteen. The place we're going to
is quite secure. But the boy has surprised me before.
He might again."
They rode in silence for some time, the cold creep-
ing into the wagon, chilling the elf to the bone. "This
Prison of Souls. Has anyone ever broken the spell
before?"
"The incarceration spell?" Lyam asked, and consid-
ered it. "There's no breaking it. Not before it wears off.
It's been tried, believe me."
"By Bardic Magic?" Naitachal countered.
Lyam considered this carefully before answering.
"To my knowledge, that has never been attempted.
But then, Bards have never been allowed in Suino-
men. They've always been turned back at the border."
Not this time. Perhaps we will have that chance to
try Bardic Magic, Naitachal thought, seeing a slight
glimmer of hope in the situation. No one knows that
we are Bards; they think that I am a Necromancer and
the boy is my apprentice. Their spells may not be
ready for our power. Alaire has invoked the magic
once already, when he brought Kai back. Can he do it
again, to save his own hide?
Can I?
Under armed escort, Naitachal and Lyam were
introduced to their new quarters in the palace dun-
geon. The elf had expected dirt floors, but these were
lined with stone and mortar, and had no furniture. In
the center of their cell was a large iron loop, to which
their shackles were padlocked. One of the guards
adjusted his shackles so that he didn't have free move-
ment of his hands. This was unfortunate, since the
padlocks were simple, and easily picked if his arms
hadn't been pulled so tightly behind him. I still might
be able to do something, though.
The dungeon cells were built in a semi-circle, fac-
ing a group of guards stationed at a table. Naitachal
counted four guards, with a fifth who went on a walk-
ing watch shortly after they arrived. They put Lyam in
a cell opposite his, chaining him to the floor in the
same fashion. The elf had hoped they would be close
enough to assist each other out of the shackles, but
this was not to be.
In the cell directly between the two Naitachal saw
another prisoner.
"Prince!" Lyam exclaimed. "You're still here."
Kai was crestfallen when he saw who his two pri-
sonmates were. "Aye, I'm here all right," he said, his
words empty, without hope. "Since you're here that
must mean Alaire's captured."
"I'm afraid so," Lyam said. "Sir Jehan had us
followed, I suspect. Something gave us away. At any
rate, he was waiting for us at the docks. We didn't have
a chance."
Kai turned his gaze on Naitachal, obviously dread-
ing the next question. "Is Alaire in the Prison of
Souls?"
Naitachal didn't know how to answer; Kai clearly
cared far more for the bardling than the elf had
expected. In fact, he was surprised. The Prince's own
situation was grim, yet he was worried about Alaire.
Kai moved closer, glancing at the table of guards, who
had brought out flagons of wine and were playing
cards. They were paying no attention to their
prisoners.
Naitachal chose his words carefully. "I was blind-
folded, so I didn't see what became of him. According
to Lyam, the Swords took him. That's all we really
know."
"You don't have to sweeten the answer for me. I
know what's happened to him. And it's all my fault!"
Tears welled in Kai's eyes, and a drop splashed on the
rock floor. "He did it to save my life."
"Yes, he told me," Naitachal said simply. "But you
mustn't blame yourself. Something like this was likely
to happen to us, given the situation we walked into. If
I'd known a fraction of what I have learned about Sir
Jehan and his machinations, I would have asked my
King to send someone a little more skilled in difficult
diplomatic situations than I." Or I would have asked
him to send a practicing Necromancer; someone who
would not have hesitated for a moment to strike these
people dead with a single spell!
"I wish I had acted sooner," Lyam said. "Sir Jehan
had this entire plot in motion by the time I decided to
do something."
"You knew this was about to happen?" Kai said,
incredulously. "Then why didn't you tell me?"
"I tried, a couple of times," Lyam said softly. "But
you had other things to do. You didn't seem too con-
cerned with the affairs of the kingdom at the time."
Crestfallen, Kai looked down, studying the floor. "I
suppose you're right. I had no idea how selfish I was.
Too busy getting drunk and fooling around with
women. I should have seen it myself! How that man
played me like a fine instrument, the same way he's
playing my father. If only Father would come down. If
he would listen to me! But it's too late for all of that"
Lyam looked like he was about to disagree, then
apparently thought twice about it "Perhaps it is," he
conceded, his shoulders sagging with defeat
A guard entered the dungeon, whispered some-
thing urgently to the four others. At once, they
gathered up the cards and wine and stashed it all away
in a hurry.
"What's going on over there?" Naitachal asked.
Maybe it's Sir Jehan coming down here to gloat. Or
perhaps he wants one last wheedle for information on
Althea before he executes us all.
Two more guards, each wearing an elaborate uni-
form more suitable for the King's chambers, looked
around the dungeon carefully before whispering to
someone unseen in the outer corridor. Kai looked up
from his sitting position, in time to see his father, King
Archenomen, cautiously enter the dungeon.
Kai leaped to his feet, the chains rattling loudly
around him. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but
nothing came out
Naitachal also got to his feet, as did Lyam.
No one spoke as the King approached the cells, his
footsteps echoing loudly in the dungeon.
There was something peculiar about this visit The
guards who were "watching" them seemed rather
disturbed that the King was present, while the King's
personal guards glanced at them suspiciously.
Did they listen to us? Are the King's personal
guards beginning to notice something wrong? Are
they starting to see what Jehan is doing? Naitachal
thought hopefully.
The King first went to Lyam's cell. "Sir Jehan
claimed that you were trying to overthrow me by tak-
ing control of the guard," the King said, sounding a
little surprised. "He also denied that he had taken you
and the Ambassador prisoner. He said you were still at
large. Yet, here you both are."
King Archenomen turned to look at the Ambassa-
dor. Naitachal bowed respectfully, but said nothing.
He turned back to Lyam. "What exactly is going on
here, Captain?"
Lyam cleared his throat. "If I may speak freely, Your
Majesty. Sir Jehan is conspiring to start a war with
Althea. I suspect he may be plotting to overthrow you,
in the confusion that such a war would engender."
The King shook his head, bewildered. Naitachal
was beginning to feel confused, himself. There
seemed to be two Archenomens, or possibly more!
One was a simple-minded man who believed every-
thing Jehan told him. One was a frightened child,
cringing at every hint of magic. One was a shrewd
ruler, and one a senile old man who could not remem-
ber what was happening from day to day. Which
. Archenomen was real? All of them? Or none?
Right now it seemed to be a combination of the
simpleton and the child. "But that makes no sense,
Lyam. He has everything he could want."
Lyam replied carefully. "No, Your Majesty, he does
not. He doesn't have the throne. Kai was quite correct
in saying that assassins were sent to kill him and Alaire;
one struck a fatal blow to your son. Alaire raised magic
in order to save his life. Kai was not trying to raise an
army of wizards to defeat you. These were all clever
stories by Sir Jehan to appeal to your fears, and to turn
you against your son. I admit Kai has been less than
responsible in the last several months, but he is far
from being the traitor Sir Jehan would have you
believe."
The King went to his son's cell, looked through the
bars at him. Naitachal began to hope. There was more
intelligence in the Kings eyes than he had seen in a
long time.
And he began to remember certain drugs that
could befuddle even the wisest man. Had Jehan been
drugging the King?
"Is this true, son?" the King said, softly.
Kai swallowed, but looked his father in the eye.
"Yes, Father. Sir Jehan is the traitor. Look at what he's
done so far. In a single evening he's assured a war with
Althea, and discredited me in the process. I'm out of
the way now." His voice dropped to a whisper, and he
walked as far to his father as the chains would allow.
"Who do you think is next?"
The King looked away, visibly disturbed by his son's
words.
Kai continued. "I know that I haven't been much of
a son. I am very sorry that I've humiliated you — this
is unforgivable, I know. But please, give me another
chance. I can make you proud of me. I know I can!"
The King gazed at his son fondly. Then, gradually,
his face broke into a broad, toothy smile. "I know you
can, too. This time, I think I believe you. For one
thing, you don't reek of ale. That's a start."
The King stepped back from his son's cell, and
addressed all three captives. "I don't know that Sir
Jehan is a traitor. But it seems that you are in prison
under less than legitimate pretenses. Until we resolve
this matter, I think you should all be set free."
At last, he went to Naitachal. "Ambassador, I am
embarrassed beyond measure by all of this! I had no
idea you were to be imprisoned here. It was Sir Jehan's
idea to confine you to the palace — not mine. I
allowed him to persuade me you were plotting a war
against us. I have just learned that the information
regarding the Althean forces massing on our border is
false, and it is beginning to look as if Sir Jehan fabri-
cated the whole story. As long as I am King, there will
be no war with your fine kingdom. You are free to
leave and do as you wish. And I will see to it that your
secretary is pardoned immediately."
Naitachal bowed graciously, watching the King's
face. Yes, there definitely was more sense in the man's
eyes. "I believe Alaire, my secretary, has been taken to
the Prison of Souls. I suspect they may be in the proc-
ess of incarcerating him as we speak."
The King's face flushed crimson with anger. "And I
wasn't notified!" He turned to the guards, milling
about by the corridor. "Why wasn't I notified? It is Sui-
nomen Law!"
No answer came from the guards, who stared stu-
pidly at the King, apparently at a complete loss of
words.
"Release these three immediately!" The King
roared. "Have them escorted to my chambers. We
have a very great deal to talk about!"
At this fine example of royal rage, Naitachal
expected the guards to leap into action. But the guards
did nothing, averting their eyes; one began slithering
towards the corridor.
The King marched over to the largest guard, his
face directly in front of his. The guard looked terrified
"Release these men immediately or I will personally
skin you alive with a butter knife!"
The man gulped, looked down at his boots. "I
would be most happy to, Your Majesty. But you see,
we don't have the key. Sir Jehan does."
"He's lying!" Kai shrieked. "Sir Jehan was never
down here. One of them has the key."
"Is this true?" the King said. "Do you have the key?
I believe the rules require the attending jailer to have
the key to all the cells. Which one of you has it?"
Naitachal had a sinking feeling that they wouldn't
be leaving the cells for a while after all. What kind of
game are they playing with the King now? Are they
that certain Sir Jehan has complete control of Suino-
men, or are they under a spell, cast by Soren and his
incompetents? Naitachal studied the guards, now for
the first time. Indeed they had a glassy, sort of dazed
look, but then so did most of the natives here. He
couldn't know for certain without closer observation
—which didn't seem to be forthcoming, since the key
was still "missing."
"I'll return with the keys to this horrid place," the
King said. "I think I know where there are some
spares kept."
He glared at the guards before leaving, and said,
"You may even live to regret this." His two personal
guards followed him out of the dungeon, into the cor-
ridor. Naitachal wondered if they would ever again see
the King alive; now that he knew what Sir Jehan's
intentions probably were, he would soon learn who
was still loyal, and who wasn't. Whoever had the most
men would win.
Shortly after the King left there was a brief, hushed
conference among the remaining guards. Afterwards
they all left except one, a small, frail man, who stayed
at the table, eying Naitachal and Lyam nervously.
"This doesn't look good," Lyam said from his cell.
"Those men have already turned against the King; one
of them I'm sure had the keys. You know, Ambassador,
if you wanted to work some magic to make that pitiful
little guard over there come up with a way to let us
out, I doubt very seriously the King would have you
prosecuted."
"Good idea," Naitachal said, turning his eye on the
remaining guard. "Come over here, little man. I would
like to talk to you."
The guard yelled, "You'll be working no hellish
magic on me!" and fled the dungeon. Naitachal heard
his running steps fading down the corridor.
"Well, so much for that," Lyam said. "I guess we'll
wait until the King returns."
"Or somebody else. I don't particularly like the idea
of waiting. It might not be the King who returns first."
Naitachal thought for a long moment. "Captain, are
you certain there's no other way out of these cells?
Some kingdoms have secret means of escape, should
the rulers be imprisoned in their own dungeon by
enemies."
Lyam exhaled his breath in a long, deep sigh. "That
is a brilliant idea, but no, I'm afraid we never devel-
oped such exits in this dungeon. This palace is,
however, over a thousand years old. There just might
be—"
Before Captain Lyam finished the sentence, Nai-
tachal became aware of a new presence in the
dungeon. Lyam stopped speaking, evidently noticing
the newcomer at the same time.
"You won't be going anywhere, traitor," Sir Jehan
said as he came closer to their cells. Soren was close
behind him, holding a wooden reed of some kind.
Does he know the King was here? Naitachal
thought, as Kai looked in his direction. The Dark Elf
gave him a warning look. Don't say anything, he
mouthed, hoping the boy understood.
Jehan smiled. "With one exception, that is. You, Kai.
You'll be joining your friend in the Association Hall
now."
Soren stepped forward, went over to Naitachal's
cell, and as if he was about to play the reed instru-
ment, held it up to his lips. The sudden expulsion of
breath launched something that pricked Naitachal in
the leg; he looked down, and plucked the little dart
from his flesh.
"What have you —" Naitachal began to say, but the
paralysis of the drug the dart delivered was already
having an effect. He crumpled like a wad of silk, his
body folding over as if he had no bones left. He lay on
the dungeon floor, spread uncomfortably across a
length of chain, unable to move.
I suppose the drug will kill me next, he thought,
with an amazing lack of emotion. But in a few
moments it became evident that, at least for now, it
would leave him very much alive. Whatever it was, its
effect was new to him.
It seems that Jehan and Soren are quite the experi-
menters with drugs. This one — and one they use on
the King? If it works the same on humans as it does on
me, it must wear off periodically, as it did just now.
He tried, but found raising magic impossible; the
drug had paralyzed his ability with complete effective-
ness. Even the power of Necromancy was lost to him.
He reached for the energy, the dark energies of death
that once came so naturally to him, but found only a
thick wall, blocking him. In the few moments before
Soren hit him with the dart, he might have been capa-
ble of shielding himself. But a poisoned dart was the
last thing he'd expected.
Bravo, Soren, he thought in frustration. What do
you do for an encore?
Naitachal observed the goings-on in the dungeon
passively, completely helpless to intervene. Captain
Lyam watched in equal frustration as the four guards
entered after Sir Jehan, unlocked and entered Kai's
cell, and seized the boy. The Prince flailed with the
chains helplessly as the much larger men pulled him
towards the corridor.
"As I expected. He's not going to cooperate," Sir
Jehan said. "Soren, would you please do the honors?"
Without objection, Soren aimed, and fired a dart at
Kai, which hit him in his right buttock. The boy
yelped, spat back at Soren, and then collapsed in a
fleshy puddle much as Naitachal had. The drug's
effect was total. Kai lay there, eyes open, panting like a
frightened puppy, but clearly unable to move.
The largest of the guards picked the boy up, flung
him over a shoulder, shackles and all, and followed
Soren and Sir Jehan out of the dungeon.
Chapter XVIII
When Alaire came to, wizards of the Association were
lifting him out of the wagon and laying him on a small,
flat cart. His first urge was to struggle, to try to get
away, but his arms and legs wouldn't respond; in fact,
he couldn't feel his arms and legs. All he could feel
was his head, pounding. He could see and hear just
fine, but saw only what was in front of his eyes, for he
could not even move his head. As they wheeled him
towards the Association Hall, he developed a sinking
feeling why he was paralyzed, and how it had hap-
pened.
They've immobilized me with magic, Alaire
thought, in panic. Or with a drug. First they rapped
me on the head so I would stay still long enough for
them to perform the spell, or whatever they did. The
ball of fear in his stomach was cold and hard, like a ball
of ice. What are they going to do with me?
They wheeled him into a great hall, brilliantly lit
although he couldn't see the light source. Wizards
leaned over him, their faces concealed by hoods. A
half dozen of them picked him up, like a sack of roots.
His head lolled backward, and from the skewed and
upside-down perspective, he saw what surrounded
him.
The entire hall was filled with wizards, each holding
a red, lit candle. Another wizard was pouring a circle
with white powder, perhaps salt, around Alaire and
the group holding him. A strange monotonous chant
began among the wizards, and grew in pitch and vol-
ume until the entire hall was chanting the strange
Suinomen verse.
The box they laid him into was of oak, shallow and
tapered, lined and padded with black silk. Altogether
too much like a coffin for his sanity. He watched help-
lessly as they picked up what had to be the lid to the
thing, unable to scream.
They dropped the lid over him, leaving him in total
darkness. He couldn't feel anything, and the lid cut off
sound as well as light. He was lost in a formless, shape-
less darkness.
He couldn't even cry out in terror.
His fear was beyond anything he'd ever felt before;
there was nothing left to him but fear.
They were going to rob him of his soul and store his
body somewhere. They might already have done so!
He had no way of telling. How long would he be in
here? A year? Two? Forever? They had no reason to
let him go; he was not a Suinomen citizen. Only Nai-
tachal knew where he was, and they might kill the
Dark Elf before he could get word home. He could be
condemned to an eternity of this darkness —
Blackness became light. His body melted away
completely, as if he were made of wax, and held over a
flame. He had thought he could not feel anything —
but now he realized there had been a feeling of
weight, of solidity, and of connection. Now that was
 gone! There was no "Alaire" anymore, only a spark
floating in the light.
And light became cold, deep, chilling cold. It was
the cold of a thousand winters, of being frozen in ice,
of freezing blood, of skin turning blue. It was a cold
beyond numbness, but he could not shiver, for his
body was elsewhere.
Now he was the ice itself, his new body an ice crystal,
among several other ice crystals. He could see, after a
fashion; a revelation that gave him no relief. Instead, to
his horror, he realized that he was one of a row of
crystals, lining a shelf, with other shelves before him and
to either side. His "vision" through the crystal was
fogged, unclear, blurred with tiny cracks and fissures.
On his surface these were minute imperfections, and he
was aware of every little flaw and blemish.
The terror ebbed, and as it faded, he tried to recall
why he had been frightened. There was no reason to
be frightened, was there? Not in Suinomen ...
Why am I in Suinomen? he wondered, then. I'm
from. . . the south. Al. . . Althe. .. somewhere south.
Somewhere else. It didn't matter. Here mattered, and
now. Right?
Distant recollections of a Dark Elf, a Bard, were
somehow important to him in ways he could no longer
remember.
If he could not remember them, then they weren't
important. The elf faded in his memory to a dark blur,
and vanished
Father...
But the thoughts slipped away, like swiftly swim-
ming fish, leaving behind only the biting cold and the
vague awareness of being in a prison.
Prison of... what? Of where?
His identity continued to slip away in pieces, like
falling shards of glass, until he could no longer recall
his name.
Who am I? How did I come to be here?
What is here?
What is...
It was a moment later, and an eternity; it was both,
and neither.
Fog shifting within ice, freezing over his soul. Drift-
ing amid vague fears, vaguer longings, he no longer
knew who he was, or what he was; captured in crystal,
the soul sought memories, found nothing but ice and
fog. Ice and fog, and a fear that hounded him and kept
him restlessly searching for someone, something,
while the ice urged him to sleep, to let it numb him to
everything, to make him forget completely.
He needed help. For what, he did not know, only
that he needed it He tried to call for that help —
Then, piercing the stillness, a sound. A sound so
sweet that it cut through the ice surrounding him, so
pure it could only have come from the mouth of a
goddess. The goddess called to him from across the
ice, sounding in his mind from all directions.
She's singing to me, he thought with wonder, sud-
denly recognizing the sound as song. Thoughts
became a little clearer. Who is she?
He turned his attention inward, away from the
room of crystals and into the light. The light sur-
rounded him, then broke into a delicate snowfall,
falling around him with muffled softness.
The snow cleared, parted, like the parting of a thin
white curtain. The goddess stood at the edge of a large
lake, beside a tree that, despite the season, bloomed
with tiny, white flowers. She wore a gown of white that
flowed over her body in gentle folds, like a frozen
fountain, and she sang a song of sweetness and power,
calling to the birds and animals, gentle commands to
do her bidding. As she raised her hands, the beasts
surrounded her, ready to obey. The birds opened their
beaks and joined her song with a hundred songs of
their own.
A shaft of light suddenly illuminated him from
above. She turned to him, smiled, and began singing
directly to him again, this time calling a name.
"Alaire, my son," she sang, and he became con-
fused, disoriented
Son?
Alaire?
The light spread from him to her; it illuminated her
clearly, and he saw that this was no goddess, but a
mortal woman, older than he —
Mother?
She smiled. With that identification came other
memories. And recognition; she was performing some
kind of magic. Anxiety for her overcame him. She
should not do this, magic was dangerous!
Is this why I'm here?
"You see who I am. Remember who you are," she
sang. "Remember what you are, and sing yourself into
being!"
What I am? he thought. He had a name, Alaire —
He had a mother. He must have had friends, com-
panions. The Dark Elf. .. he was a teacher, he helped
me become what I am. What am I?
"I will help you," she continued. "With music. With
what brought you here. You will use your music to
break free of this spell imprisoning you."
Imprisoning me? How was he imprisoned? He
seemed free enough at the moment.
And yet, the dim memories that flitted just out of
reach seemed to argue against that.
"I will help you," she repeated. "I will help you
remember. When you were an infant, there was a
creek that flowed near our summer cottage in the
mountains. You used to sing with it, gurgling like any
baby, except that your baby-sounds were music —"
He saw the cottage, a rustic chalet on a ridge of
hills, surrounded by fields of daisies and lavender. He
wondered how the woman — no, my mother — was
putting these things in his mind, and then saw these
were memories, of things he actually experienced
before, in another form. I wasn't like this, then, he
thought I was a human, a baby barely able to walk.
"Then when you were six, we brought you a lute,
and then a harp, and you began to play in the palace
nursery —"
He remembered more as the woman spoke. And as
she talked to him, her story became a song, and then
she was singing to him, about his past, his hopes, his
aspirations.
"And then you met Gawaine, who told you about
the magic that went with the music. And you began to
learn what that magic could do."
He held tightly to the memories, the clear and per-
fect slices of his life that now sprang free of the fight
and cold that had stolen them. With every memory
came the hints of more, and he used those hints to
retrieve others, and his life began to take shape —
His mother's voice faltered, and she herself faded,
until she was gone and her voice was a barely audible
murmur, echoing in the distance.
Mother, no! Come back!
"Remember" she sang, a mere whisper of sound.
"Remember and sing...."
He struggled to retrieve the words and the music,
and suddenly, he did remember singing. The song
came from within him, vibrating against the prison of
the crystal, surrounding him with light and warmth,
and millions of memories. He sang as loud as he could,
until the song roared against the walls that held him
here. Cracks appeared, and then fissures; lancing
through the cold light.
Pain lanced through him as well, pain such as he
had never felt before. He knew he was destroying the
crystal that held him — but he also knew that this was
not his body, his real body was elsewhere, and he sang
a song that would make soul and body whole again,
ignoring the pain, singing through it
light and lightning vibrated around him, vibrated
until he was all pain and sound, vibrating until his song
reached a crescendo that was unbearable —
And he shattered.
In that moment, he was aware of each of the mil-
lions of shards of crystal that scattered through the
room, their size, their shape, their velocity. It was as if
his very soul had fragmented into all those pieces,
each with a distinct set of eyes, and tiny chunks of
himself were skittering hither and yon against rock,
rafters and shelves containing other crystals.
Then, darkness.
Darkness, and a sense of weight, of being. Of arms
and legs, of head and torso. The scent of wood and
musty satin; the feeling of cloth beneath his fingertips.
He opened his eyes on darkness, and he knew he
was back in the coffin again. But now he was no longer
paralyzed, and he reached up with his hands and
pushed the lid of the coffin up. The panel slid easily
off, and clattered on the floor somewhere far beneath
him.
Every muscle was stiff and sore, but he was per-
fectly able to sit up. He looked around the darkened
room, seeing the vague outline of what appeared to be
other coffins lined up on shelves.
Suddenly the enormity of what he had just done
flooded over him. He had broken the spell! He was
free!
Filled with elation, he felt all over his body, making
sure it was real and not some kind of illusion.
It was real, solid, and indisputably his. He was even
wearing the same clothes he'd been captured in.
Now what? he thought, half-drunk on his joy, and
half still in terror that he might be cast back into the
crystal at any moment. Now — I get out of here!
He crawled over the edge of the coffin and slowly
let himself down to a cold, stone floor.
"Naitachal!" Lyam called over from his cell. "Can
you move yet?'
It had seemed like several candlemarks since
Soren's dart struck his leg, paralyzing him. The Dark
Elf had succumbed to sleep for part of that time on
the cold dungeon floor, a shifting, semi-wakefulness
that came and went. But now the drug seemed to be
fading; after a bit of experimentation, as his legs and
arms flopped in crude approximations of what he
wanted them to do, he gained control over himself
again.
Slowly, he moved from his sprawled position on the
floor, and just as slowly got to his feet.
Lyam had been spared the dart. Naitachal sup-
posed that the purpose of the drug was to prevent him
from using magic, and not to physically incapacitate
him. He reached deep for the energies of his magic, to
create the most rudimentary shields —
But there was still a strange, black wall preventing
him from doing anything magical. Whatever was pre-
venting him from using his power was not the drug.
"I can move," Naitachal said. "But I can't work any
magic. What was that Soren used on me?"
"I don't know, but I think it's the same thing they
used on Alaire before they hauled him away." Lyam
clutched the bars desperately, his knuckles white. "You
can't do anything magically?'
Naitachal shook his head "Not yet. But the drug's
wearing off. If I pretend I'm still incapacitated by it,
they may forget to dose me again. As long as I'm able
to move, I still might be able to do something. Any
idea where they took Kai?"
"The Prison of Souls," Lyam said dismally. "It seems
Sir Jehan is incarcerating anyone there who might be a
threat to him, whether or not they've used magic."
No guards stood watch over them now; but down
the long hallway, from somewhere within the palace,
he could hear the distinct sounds of fighting. Shout-
ing, screaming, the clash of metal and leather. The
sounds were distant, mere echoes down the hallway.
But unmistakable. The coup was in progress, and
Jehan could spare no man to watch over them.
"There may be another way. Something I was going
to look into, before we were interrupted," Naitachal
said absently, trying to get to the cell door. But the
chain pulled taut, stopping him before he could get
within arm's length of it.
Fine, then, I'll look to that first!
He examined the padlock that fastened the chain to
the floor. It seemed deceptively simple, but the key
hole was curved, and narrow, nothing like he'd seen
before. Though large and bulky, the mechanism inside
didn't rattle around like the Althean locks Tich'ki had
taught him to pick.
Fairies. You can't rely on them for anything.
He looked around for something that would work
as a pick, and realized how much he relied on magic to
get himself out of fixes like these.
But before the search for a pick got too far under-
way, a ruckus at the end of the hallway interrupted
him. King Archenomen's voice bellowed out of the
darkness at the end of the hall, followed by the clank
and rattle of chains and shackles.
"How dare you imprison your King!" roared the
King. "I'll have you all boiled in oil! Every last traitor-
ous one of you! I'll have you skinned alive! I'll bury you
in wasp nests! I'll see you wrapped in hot wires until
you scream in agony and you're dead, dead, DEAD!"
Guards shoved King Archenomen into the dun-
geon. Shackled around the neck and wrists, the King
struggled as three large guards pulled him along, like
masters leading a reluctant dog at the end of a leash.
His face was the color of overripe tomatoes. Stripped
of his royal finery, he was now shivering half-naked in
nothing more than a pair of breeches.
"Into the cell," one of the guards said indifferently.
"King Jehan will be down presently."
The words sent Archenomen into a fit of rage.
"King? Jehan! You'll die! All of you!"
They tossed the former King, sputtering and gur-
gling in incomprehensible monosyllables, into the cell
Kai had occupied, and padlocked him to the floor like
the rest of them. Then they turned and left, without a
word.
Naitachal favored him with a sardonic smile, and
despite the gravity of their situation, he could not
resist getting a dig in. "Hard to find good help these
days, isn't it, Your Majesty?"
Archenomen ignored him. He raged at the end of
his chain like a maddened lion. "Where is Sir Jehan?
Where is the traitor? Is he such a coward that he can
no longer face the King he claimed he was willing to
die for yesterday?"
Naitachal sadly shook his head. He still doesn't
understand, does he? the elf thought dismally. Was he
so blinded by Jehan that he thinks none of this was
planned?
Down the hallway, he still heard sounds of fighting,
although these were a little more subdued now.
Apparently the capture of the King had taken some of
the strength out of the battle. How many are still
loyal? How many are willing to keep fighting? How
loyal are his men?
How long do we have before we're executed?
Naitachal marveled at the expertise with which his
magic-using abilities had been neutralized. Unbeliev-
able. He had never before come across anything, spell
or drug, that could have so thorough an effect. Lyam
looked frantically from the Dark Elf to his King and
back again.
The guards had left them in a hurry, apparently to
return to the fighting. If only he could use his magic,
or even pick the lock of his chains!
Archenomen sat, dejected, in the center of the cell.
"Oh, what a fine mess this is! Lyam, you were right all
along. I wouldn't have thought it possible before, but
that murdering, oath-breaking blackguard is out for
the Crown!"
Lyam squirmed over to the bars, as close to the
King as he could manage. "Who does he have? How
many? I can't believe my men have fallen in with
him."
"Your men are the only ones who are staying loyal!"
Archenomen said, despondently. "It's the bodyguards,
the Swords of the Association, and some of the consta-
bles who are trying to take control. The Royal Guard
are the only ones standing between Jehan and my
throne!"
Were, Naitachal thought dryly. Now that Jehan's
troops have you, Archenomen, there is nothing stand-
ing between Jehan and the throne. But you don't seem
to have figured that out yet. "Have they taken prison-
ers?" Naitachal asked. "We seem to be the only ones in
here."
Archenomen looked over at him with a face full of
woe, and white as the snow outside the palace. "The
only prisoners I've seen have been taken away, to the
Association Hall. That seems to be their stronghold.
Last I saw the traitors had run the guard out of the
palace and cornered them in the guardhouse."
"These aren't the only dungeons," Lyam informed
Naitachal, then turned his attention back to the King.
"Tell me, Your Majesty, where are they putting the
prisoners?"
Archenomen shook his head, "I think they're going
to — to the Prison of Souls, if not now, then
eventually."
Lyam groaned. "There's a network of catacombs
under the hall, designed to confuse anyone who is not
familiar with the layout. That is the Prison of Souls,
Naitachal. There are also regular prison cells, where
they could keep prisoners before actually stealing
their souls and putting them in the crystals."
"They would have to be using every last one of their
men to keep the Royal Guard at bay," Naitachal
observed. "I doubt they have time or peace for any
involved spell-casting."
True. I suspect that when the battle is over then
they will start imprisoning the souls of those they hold
captive." Lyam shuddered. "All my men..."
Archenomen looked around, feverishly, as if sud-
denly noticing his son was gone. "Kainemonen?
Where is he? Have they taken him away?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Lyam said sadly. "I think I
overheard them say they were taking him to the Asso-
ciation Hall."
"No!" Archenomen said. "They can't be thinking
to—"
"I'm afraid they are," Naitachal said absently, his
mind busy trying to see some way out of this. And
wondering if there was anything left of his hapless
apprentice. Alaire? What has become of you? Are you
even alive?
The arrival of more guards in the dungeon inter-
rupted his thoughts. Four of them, wielding loaded
crossbows, covered four more who opened the cells,
entered, and started unlocking the chains from the
floor.
"I don't suppose this means were going to dinner?"
Naitachal inquired innocently.
"Silence, prisoner!" one of the guards shouted. "No
talking! You're needed elsewhere!"
Naitachal already knew where.
The Prison of Souls.
Chapter XIX
Alaire remained crouched on the cold, stone floor, lis-
tening for any signs of his captors. He groped for a
weapon, but the mages had been thorough; they'd
even taken his belt along with his little belt-knife. He
listened with every fiber, but heard nothing but his
pounding heart and his shallow breathing.
The room was as frigid as the pond in the garden,
and his breath fogged before his face in the darkened
room. A light source at the entrance cast a dim trian-
gle on the floor; hard to tell what it was; perhaps an oil
lamp, or a perhaps a candle. Flickering light made
moving shadows all around him, the only movement
in the room since he'd awakened.
Well, whatever is going on, they aren't going to
come back for me right now, I guess. He relaxed a lit-
tle, and straightened from his crouch. Well, is
everything intact? Have they hamstrung me, or any-
thing? I wouldn't put it past them.
But other than bruises and an aching head — and
the fact that he was still stiff and cold — everything
seemed to be in working order. His clothing was still
intact, though he did wish it was black; that would
have been useful for lurking in the shadows. The back
of his head had a knot on it, his neck had a slight cut
on it from the dagger at his throat, and there were
some other slight injuries he didn't remember taking
that were probably from the fight. If they had done
anything else to him, he saw no indications of it.
The spell they had cast to take his soul, however,
still fogged his mind. He felt as if he had awakened
from a very deep sleep — as if, in fact, he still was not
quite awake.
He vaguely recalled that his mother, Grania, had
reached across the vast distances separating their king-
doms and had somehow broken the spell that kept his
soul locked up in the crystal.
No, he corrected himself. She didn't break it. She
inspired me to break it! Mother, how in the name of
heaven did you do that? And where are you now?
He listened for her soft voice, waited for her gentle
touch on his mind, but sensed nothing. She was gone
now, as far away from him now as she had ever been.
He felt somehow abandoned, and terribly alone.
Naitachal — Kai — Lyam — oh gods. What are
they doing to you? Are you dead? Or have they turned
you into crystals too? Panic and helplessness over-
came him for a moment, bringing him close to tears.
But tears would not help his friends, nor would they
save him. He could not remain here forever.
First, I need to cover my tracks, he thought, glanc-
ing around the dark room, at the rows of shelves
containing the coffins. Alaire shuddered at the
reminder that a few moments ago he had been in one
of them, destined to stay in it indefinitely while his
soul was suspended in that strange state of numb not-
being. Far above, on another row of shelves, he saw
the crystals, hundreds of them. Each one was about
the size of his thumb, each in its own little wooden
cubicle, suspended with wire.
The crystal seemed so much larger, when I was in it,
he thought. When he took a few steps, his boot
crunched on something. The floor was covered with
broken crystal.
He took his booted foot and swept the remains of
the crystal under one of the shelves. There were still
some pieces left, but he had cleaned up enough to fool
the casual observer. Next, he pulled his former coffin
off the shelf and dragged it to a corner, where he slid it
under one of the lower shelves, out of sight
The next task was not one he looked forward to. He
almost decided it wouldn't be necessary, but when he
saw the big, gaping space his coffin had once occu-
pied, he knew that if he didn't put something in its
place someone would notice.
I must have raised enough magic getting out of that
damned thing that I'm surprised nobody's noticed yet.
Then again, someone might have, and they might even
be on their way down right now.
He paused to listen for approaching footsteps,
heard only the distant drip of water somewhere, and
went about his task with tightly controlled fear.
These people are not dead, he reminded himself.
They're only sleeping. Under a spell
The coffin lids were fortunately not nailed on. He
opened the first one on his right and peered in. The
man looked like a poor vagrant, passed out from too
much to drink. He wasn't breathing, but his skin was a
good color, and while it was cool to Alaire's hesitant
touch, it was not as icy cold as a corpse would be in
this place.
But his soul is gone, he said to himself, and shud-
dered. He doesn't look anything like me. Keep going.
He replaced the lid and began a thorough search
for someone who resembled himself. He came upon
one poor soul who must have been about seventeen,
with blond hair and a set of clothes that were a cut
above poverty level. This boy had a much larger nose,
and even larger ears, but other than that he looked
vaguely like Alaire.
This one will have to do, Alaire decided, and
replaced the lid, and then began dragging it towards
the vacant space. With a great deal of difficulty he
managed to lift the boy's coffin up to his former
space and, panting and sweating, pushed it into
place.
Now I've got to get out of here and find Kai!
For a dreadful moment he thought that his friend
might have also been imprisoned here, before he
remembered the Prison of Souls was only for magi-
cians. And Kai was no magician. He must be
somewhere else.
Alaire found a key ring, with four large keys on it,
hanging on the wall beside the door. One of them
opened the door to this very room, but he had no idea
what the others matched. They must go to something,
he thought. Might come in handy. He wrapped the
keys in a scarf, to mute any sounds they might make
rattling together, and stuffed them in his pocket. He
entered the corridor just outside, and found himself at
the juncture of three hallways, each leading off at odd
angles. Candles flickered from sconces, providing dim
illumination.
Wish I had a decent weapon. Those candleholders
might be better than nothing, but not by much. He
considered them, then rejected the idea. No, I
couldn't even pry them out of the wall.
Since he had no idea of which way to go, he
picked a corridor at random and headed away from
his prison-room. The corridors twisted and turned
at odd intervals, not really leading anywhere, and
not revealing any new rooms or chambers. It was as
if the corridors were an end unto themselves, a laby-
rinth with no clear entrances or exits. Dust on the
floor indicated no foot traffic had come this way for
quite a while. The footprints he left behind
concerned him briefly, but he could see no other
way, short of levitation, of avoiding them.
And Naitachal hasn't bothered to teach me that
yet —
The first indication that he had made any progress
out of the labyrinth was when he scented the most vile
stench he'd had the misfortune to encounter. His first
impression was that this was a decomposing corpse,
laid to rest down here and forgotten. But there were
other odors besides the stench, some of old food and
stale wine, some of fresh food, and some he could not
even identify.
Dead, yet alive. He was afraid to find out what this
thing was, questioned whether or not he really needed
to investigate it. What can this smell possibly have to
do with my escape from this place?
On the other hand — where else could he go?
Everything else so far had been a dead end.
As he moved forward, he heard voices from up
ahead. The stench worsened, and his stomach
churned. The voices became louder, clearer, and he
was able to make out a few words among the echoes.
And he recognized one of them.
Sir Jehan.
He stopped, tried to determine where exactly the
voices were coming from. Finally, he got down on
hands and knees and crept closer, peered carefully
around the corner, saw that the corridor ended at a
large, cavernous room. Candles and an occasional
torch illuminated the area.
There were boxes and crates, bags and barrels piled
everywhere. Shadow-shrouded shapes hinted at furni-
ture stacked amid the confusion. There were plenty of
places for concealment, and he took advantage of that.
He found a niche between two large wooden crates, in
an area that appeared to be a staging area for supplies,
and crawled in, working his way towards the sound of
the voices.
Eventually, he found himself peering out between
two more crates at a thoroughly bizarre scene taking
place in the center of the huge room.
Sir Jehan stood several paces away from — some-
thing. Whatever it was, it was not like any creature
Alaire had ever seen before; shapeless and bloblike.
Jehan's posture was one of deference, and Alaire
guessed that Jehan was serving it in some way.
Interesting. He had never see Jehan act this way
around the King; if anything, the man had acted as if
he were the royal equal of King Archenomen, an atti-
tude the King had never corrected while Alaire was
around.
But here, Jehan was clearly the inferior. When he
spoke, his voice was pitched much higher than nor-
mal, showing not only deference, but fear.
Alaire turned his attention to the creature Jehan
was talking to. To call this a human, or even human-
oid, would have taken a great leap of the imagination.
The large, doughy blob of flesh sat directly on the
floor, with a vague outline of legs at the bottom. There
were stubby blobs that could have been arms near the
top, waving and gesturing as it spoke. A large drapery
— or maybe a tent had been hacked up to provide
some modest clothing — covered it, more or less,
though the drapery still left great flaps of bloated, dis-
eased flesh exposed.
And it looked diseased. Whatever had infected the
creature had spread all over it. Great raw pustules cov-
ered the body, oozing a thin, clear fluid that dripped
down its sides and onto the floor. A pair of wings, dis-
torted and bent, sat on its back, and oddly, they
reminded Alaire of fairy's wings. But fairies never
looked like this.
Could this have been a fairy at one time? Alaire
wondered, transfixed by the creature, fascinated in
spite of his repulsion. What could have caused all this
to happen?
The longer he looked at it, the more he began to
feel that this probably had been a fairy — once. A fairy
gone horribly wrong —
The wings were what decided him. They were of
that peculiar insectoid shape common among the
fairy-folk, who could fly about like mosquitoes with
little assistance from magic. Fairies were also shape-
and size-changers, and could change their size from
a hands-breadth to human height in the blink of an
eye.
But whatever had caused this to happen must have
made this size, and appearance, permanent. Who, or
what, could ever choose to stay this way?
Jehan and his — master — were clearly arguing
about something, and the words reached Alaire's ears
slightly distorted by echoes, but mostly under-
standable.
"— would have thought that by now you would
have had things under control," the bloated thing said.
"After all these years of planning this, I expected it to
go smoothly and quickly. But no. You're still fighting
the Kings men, even though you have the King in cus-
tody. Why are they resisting? What makes them think
they can win? Answer me."
Sir Jehan shifted from foot to foot uneasily, wring-
ing his hands, timidly holding a single finger up as if to
silence the creature. "The King, the Ambassador, the
Captain of the guard, are all on their way over here as
we speak. That twice-damned magician secretary of
theirs is in the Prison of Souls now. His companion,
the Prince, will soon join him! Prince Kainemonen is
chained up in the extra cells on this level, awaiting
incarceration in the matrix. These things take time
Queen Carlotta. Soon they will all be in the Prison of
Souls, and the magical power there will be twice what
it is now!"
The mention of the things name took Alaire aback.
Did Sir Jehan call it Carlotta? Where have I heard
that name before — I know it's important, but I just
can't quite place —
"If the young magician is incarcerated there now,
then why can't I feel any increase in power?" the
bloated thing hissed. It attempted to fold its arms
resolutely, but the clumsy attempt was more comical
than regal. It lost its precarious balance and nearly tee-
tered over. "In fact, I felt a decrease a moment ago.
Are you sure you know what you're doing? Were you
certain this was a magician?"
"Certain. And Soren swears he is a Bard, too."
The creature hissed again, turning several different
colors with rage. "A Bard? I hate Bards! A Bard is
responsible for doing this to me!"
Then it fell into place. This is Carlotta, the sister of
King Amber! Naitachal was part of the group that
thwarted her plan to take the throne from her brother
a long time ago, long before King Reynard. Kevin, the
bardling, and Naitachal's student, performed the spell
that unmade her human form and returned her to her
fairy status. But that Unmaking didn't do this to her.
There must be more to it than that.
"Yes, I know," Sir Jehan said solemnly. "There is a
surprise I've been saving for you. Perhaps it will please
you to know that the Ambassador from Althea is none
other than the Necromancer Dark Elf Naitachal!
Soon he will be here, and you will be able to do with
him what you will."
The blob was silent for several long moments. "Then
obscene, cackling laughter poured from the thing's
mouth. "You jest!" Carlotta said. "Naitachal? Cap-
tured? Here?"
"Yes, he is," Sir Jehan said quickly. "I knew you'd be
pleased."
"Indeed," Carlotta said. "But why didn't you tell me
that before! Seven hells bedamned, you've withheld
information from me again!"
"Oh, but it was only meant to be a little surprise,"
Sir Jehan said quickly, in a panic. "Certainly there was
no harm."
"Perhaps not," Carlotta said, unable to keep the
glee from her voice. "When will they be here? I must
know."
"Momentarily," Sir Jehan said. "I sent my men over
some time ago."
Carlotta let loose another peal of obscene laughter,
and rocked back and forth on the enormous buttocks,
waving her hands, cackling, like some kind of disgust-
ing perversion of a nursery toy. Apparently, this
substituted for jumping about for joy. The sight made
Alaire's stomach churn, but he was too fascinated to
look away.
"Ever since his bardling student Kevin unmade me
I've wanted to get even," she said, in a self-satisfied
tone. "They turned me back into a fairy and all I could
do was flee. They spoiled the very plan that would
have made me Queen of Althea centuries ago. And
ever since I've had to hide here. I'd almost forgotten
Naitachal would still be alive. He would be the only
survivor of that pathetic little group. And he's coming
here. To see me. How wonderful!"
Sir Jehan was smiling and nodding, nervously glanc-
ing around himself as if looking for unseen intruders.
Alaire crouched still further into the shadows, praying
that he wouldn't be seen.
The blob continued "You know, your grandfather

was not as stupid as you are. He knew a good deal
when he saw it. He had the vision to form the Magi-.
cians' Association as soon as I suggested it to him. But
perhaps that is only to be expected; he was, after all, a
mage, and you have nothing in the way of magical
abilities. You don't even know if you've really impris-
oned a Bard in the matrix."
Jehan grimaced. "Of course he's a Bard! Soren
guaranteed it!"
Carlotta snorted; it was not pretty. "What does that
fat magician know about Bards anyway? He's never
even seen one. Suinomen hasn't seen one since I had
your grandfather prohibit them from entering the
kingdom. How did this one get in, anyway?"
"He was in disguise, acting as Naitachal's secretary,
and careful not to reveal his true nature. Soren has
assured me he is indeed, a Bard." Jehan folded his
arms across his chest, and tried to look impressive. He
failed.
Carlotta snarled at him. "You should certainly hope
so. You and your little dog Soren, too. Mistakes are
intolerable. Without my plan, you would be herding
dieren, and this entire kingdom would be just the
same backward barbarian bastion it was when I
arrived."
"And a cunning plan it is, my Queen," Sir Jehan said
ingratiatingly. "When Grandfather eliminated all the
mages except the ones in the Association, you proved
that we could manipulate the throne as we pleased.
With your knowledge of drugs, we managed to cloud
Archenomen's mind enough to make him turn against
his own son. Now, we are only a half-step from gaining
his Crown."
"And don't forget what this cunning plan was all
about," Carlotta said, interrupting him. "I don't plan
on looking like this forever!"
"Soren knows what he's doing," Sire Jehan soothed.
"Once we capture the soul of Naitachal, after what-
ever torture you have in mind, of course, we will
incarcerate him, the King, the Captain, and every
other prisoner we have taken in the matrix. Even
though they are not mages, you will still have a wealth
of power to draw from. We can break the Unmaking
spell this time, I promise."
Carlotta seemed to swell; she towered over Jehan,
and Alaire saw then why Jehan was so terrified of her.
She might be hideous, she might be rooted to one
place physically, but it was obvious that her power
could reach any corner of this kingdom. "Well, you
had better. If I get any fatter or uglier as a result of
these efforts, it will be your soul that pays. Each time
that Soren cooks up a cure for this condition of mine it
backfires! If it backfires again — "
"It won't!" Sir Jehan squeaked, cowering before her,
clearly frightened out of his wits. "I promise."
"Now where have I heard that before!" Carlotta
replied sardonically, but she shrank back down to her
"normal" size with a sigh. "But now, with all the pow-
ers of the Necromancer and Bard, I think even that
fraud Soren will be able to break the spell so that I can
resume my human form and powers. Secular and
magical!"
Jehan stroked his beard, nervously. "Only a step-
ping stone, my dear, only a stepping stone. A war with
Althea is all but guaranteed. Now that King Archeno-
men is out of the way, we can blame his
'disappearance' on Althea's ambassador, Naitachal,
and implicate King Reynard. That's all the justification
we could ever need for a war. And when we conquer
that southern land —"
"I haven't forgotten our deal," Carlotta said slyly.
"You will be made King of Althea. Then we will share
the spoils. But that's only if all, and I mean all, goes
according to plan!"
Something about the way she had said that alerted
Alaire. She doesn't mean to keep her bargain, he
thought. Not surprising. She always was treacher-
ous. ...
"Your wish," Sir Jehan replied, bowing flamboy-
antly. "Is my command."
Alaire remained perfectly still in the shadows as the
full implications of what he had just heard came home
to him. This is worse than I could have ever imagined!
They're out for Althea, and it doesn't look like they'll
stop until they have it.
Jehan and Carlotta did not seem to be finished with
their conversation, but Alaire had heard all he needed
to. He carefully withdrew from his hiding place, and
crept back to the corridor, in search of Kai.
Kai's got to be somewhere back here, he thought as
he made his way down one of the halls. They said he
was on this same level. Where would they put prison
cells?
After a brief search through the labyrinth, Alaire
found Kai. The corridor turned into a second-floor
balcony overlooking a line of iron-barred prison cells.
Kai was chained to the floor of one of these, while four
guards stood watch. Two of the guards seemed ready
to fall asleep on their feet; even so, the odds weren't
very good. Alaire had no weapons, and even with a
sword, two of these men would be too many to fight,
especially if they trained under Captain Lyam. Look-
ing down on the guards from his shadowy hiding
place, Alaire considered ways to distract them.
I've got to get them away from Kai. Maybe one of
these keys will let me into his cell. He peered at the
chains binding Kai to the floor, saw the sturdy padlock
there. Good. So long as they didn't weld him to the
spot, I might be able to free him.
Kai sat sullenly near the front of the cell, the chains
draped around him. He stared at his captors, the hate
and anger on his face there for anyone to read. Clearly
undefeated. Still in the game, and fighting.
Good. I'm going to need him to get both of us out of
there, Alaire thought. If I could create a diversion to
lead some of those guards away, I might be able to get
him out.
Just as he thought that, the noise of fighting
erupted down a corridor. Alaire couldn't tell if the ech-
oes were contributing to the ruckus, but sounded as if
hundreds of men were clashing down there. The
guards started; Kai looked up, snarling.
Two of the guards ran off, heading for the conflict.
The other two stayed, but they were clearly distracted.
They conferred for a moment, then, before his
amazed eyes, one of them opened Kai's cell, while his
partner stood nervously outside, watching back in the
direction the noise was coming from!
Alaire had no idea what the man thought he was
about — perhaps he meant to move Kai to someplace
more secure. It didn't matter. Kai was ready to snatch
any opportunity, and he wasn't about to let this one
pass.
He waited until the guard was within his reach —
then leapt!
He flung a loop of his chain around the guards
neck, and pulled it tight. The guard outside had been
looking down the corridor for that single vital second;
before he could come to his companion's rescue,
Alaire had already made his move.
He leapt down from his perch on the balcony, aim-
ing for the guard's back, but knowing he was probably
too far out of reach.

He was; he hit the floor far short of the guard, and
rolled, coming up in a crouch.
Barehanded, of course. Facing a man with a sword,
dagger, and armor.
Still, he had gotten the second guards attention, all
right. That gave Kai a fighting chance with his.
Bluff, fool! He doesn't know you aren't some kind of
barehanded assassin!
He stretched his mouth in a rictus-grin that he
hoped was frightening, and beckoned to the bewil-
dered guard. "Come on, fool! Come dance with me! I
love to dance!"
Kai had a good hold on the other guard, and was
clinging to his back like a monkey. The guard thrashed
about, flailing wildly with his sword, but he was unable
to reach Kai, and he couldn't go beyond the chain
wrapped around his neck.
The second guard glanced over his shoulder, and
Alaire made an abortive movement to get the man's
attention back on him. "Come on, you lily-livered bas-
tard!" he snarled, gesturing with his hands. "What's the
matter? You scared of a little boy?"
He was dancing a fine line, and he knew it; he had
to keep his man distracted, but if the guard decided to
attack him —
There was a clatter, a sword fell to the floor inside
the cell. Alaire had a heartbeat to make a decision,
and he opted for the chance to get his hands on a
weapon.
He dove past his man, with his hands outstretched,
flying just under the startled man's blade. He grabbed
for the hilt of the fallen sword; caught it and rolled,
then came up against the wall of the cell with a grunt
of surprise. A moment later, he was up with the sword
in his hands.
Two-on-one was unsportsmanlike, but this was not
a sporting event. As the first guard spun around,
finally knocking Kai off his back, Alaire swung —
But not for the chest; he swung for the legs.
The man went down with a scream. Kai leapt on
him and grabbed the hilt of the dagger at the guard's
belt. Alaire ran for the door of the cell, and was met
there by the second guard. Kai would have to deal
with his man himself.
This time it was an even match, sword against
sword. Even — except that this man was older and
stronger than Alaire, and a trained fighter. Even —
except that Alaire was not going to fight fair.
He feinted for the eyes, before the man had a
chance to settle himself. The guard automatically
winced back, and Alaire took a step toward him, clear-
ing the door, swinging again at the man's legs, then
feinting up at his eyes again. He gained another step.
Now he was completely outside the cell.
Behind him he heard thrashing, but he dared not
look back to see how Kai was doing. Kai would have to
win or lose his battle on his own.
The second guard made a rush at him, and they
closed. They struggled hand-to-hand and blade-to-
blade for a moment.
Then Alaire let his legs collapse, and dropped into a
back-somersault, catching the guard in the gut with
his feet and flipping him over backwards, trying to roll
his adversary into the bars and not into the open cell
door.
The guard slammed into the bars; Alaire drove both
feet into the man's belly, as hard as he could. The
guard's eyes bulged out and his cheeks puffed with the
impact.
Alaire rolled to the side, and came up on his feet.
The guard was still down, but Alaire did not hesitate.
He stabbed down, even though, at the back of his
mind, a tiny portion of himself was stuffing hands into
his mouth, horrified at what he was doing.
As he looked up from his bloody work, he saw that
Kai had won his battle as well; the boy was rising from
the guards body, hand and knife dripping blood, face
white as snow.
They exchanged a wordless, quick hug; then Alaire
bent to the padlock holding Kai's chains to the floor.
The four keys still in Alaire's pocket did not unlock
that padlock — and Alaire was forced to rifle the two
bodies, looking for more keys. The sounds of fighting
came nearer.
Finally, he found the key, carelessly thrust into a
pocket. He fumbled with the padlock and the blood-
slick key, and finally heard the welcome click of the
mechanism opening.
He freed Kai of the chains on his ankles and right
wrist, but left a single chain dangling from his left. It
made a good weapon, and was one that could not be
knocked from his hand.
Kai snatched up the dead guards sword, and the
two of them turned toward the sound of the fighting.
They exchanged a questioning glance, and Alaire
finally spoke. "Whatever's bad for the Association is
probably good for us," he said, and Kai nodded. They
started for the entrance to the hallway —
When the sounds of fighting faded, and turned to
cheers.
"And whatever's good for the Association is bad for
us," Kai replied. "Lets get out of here!"
"Do you know the way out?" Alaire asked. Kai nod-
ded, and pointed glumly towards the hallway.
Alaire cursed, and glanced around. There was a
stairway to the balcony he had leapt from, and he
grabbed Kai's elbow and dragged him towards it.
"Come on!" he hissed. "I know a place to hide, at least!"
Back to Carlotta. Anything that happened would be
reported directly to her — and anyone looking for Kai
would be looking in the opposite direction of Car-
lotta's lair. Right now, hiding somewhere near her
would probably be the safest place in the prison.
If there is any safe place here... for any of us.
Chapter XX
Just before they reached the lair, Alaire took a
moment to pull Kai toward him and whisper some
cautions into his ear.
"Whatever happens, whatever you see and hear,
don't move or make a sound unless I do," he said, cast-
ing nervous glances up and down the hall. "We're
going to hide out in a special room down here, where
the real power behind the Association and Jehan lives.
She's pretty awful, but she's kind of — a — a cripple.
She can't move much, and even though she's a really
nasty mage, she can't do anything to us unless she
knows we're there. Got that?"
"I guess so," Kai whispered, his face mirroring his
confusion. "Where she is, that's the last place anyone
would look for us, right?"
"Right." Alaire took the lead again, half-running,
his heart pounding, and expecting at any moment to
encounter a guard or one of the Association mages.
But they made it to the room without incident, and
as Alaire made a quieting motion to Kai, and
wormed his way into the maze of boxes, it dawned
on him why Carlotta had chosen to live in a storage
room —
Because it wasn't a storage room at all — it was
a room full of the tangible relics of her power.
Loot, in other words; valuable tilings she had
probably had confiscated and brought to her. And
like a dragon, she had piled up her treasures here,
where she could look at them and gloat over them
every day. Certainly there was no other way she
could enjoy her power, except by having people
brought down here to be killed. She could not
move from this place, there was only so much food
even a gross lump like Carlotta could eat in a day,
and as for enjoying the kind of life — and lovers —
she had enjoyed before the backlash of her
attempts to break her Unmaking spell . . . well,
Alaire doubted that there was anything in the
universe that could be induced to find Carlotta's
hulk tolerable, much less desirable.
Alaire found a place under a low couch where he
and Kai could get a good view of the center of the lair
without being seen. Kai started a little when he real-
ized that the thing in the middle of the room was alive,
and not some land of grotesque and obscene statue, or
a pile of garbage, but he made no sound.
They had not been in place for very long, when
noises from another hallway indicated that the guards
were bringing in prisoners of some kind. Alaire
thought he was prepared for almost anything, but his
heart stopped when he realized the three battered
individuals being hauled before Carlotta were Nai-
tachal, Lyam and the King.
That was too much for Kai; he gasped, and
started to squirm out. Alaire had to grab him and
haul him back, covering his mouth with one hand,
and whispering urgently that all Kai could do at the
moment would be to get himself killed. Finally Kai
stopped struggling, and nodded, and Alaire took his
hand away. Fortunately, the noise the prisoners and
their guards had made more than covered the
noises Kai had produced. By the time the two of
them had settled once again, the prisoners were all
arranged before the obscene bulk of the former
half-fairy.
"Well, your Majesty," Carlotta said, her relatively
pleasant voice something of a shock, coming out of her
hideous body. "How kind of you to finally pay me a
visit! I have been looking forward to this for some time.
Tell me, how did you enjoy my little gifts to you?'
The King shook his head, puzzled. "G-gifts?" he fal-
tered. "Who are you? What gifts?"
Carlotta's slit of a mouth stretched in what must
have been a smile. "Why, my little cordial," she replied
pleasantly. "And my little tonic. You remember. The
cordial you shared every night with Sir Jehan, and the
tonic you drank every morning on the advice of Mage
Soren. They were both so beneficial to you." She
attempted to cock her head to one side, a grotesque
reflection of a flirtatious movement she must have
used decades ago. "Of course, your son didn't find the
results so pleasant, but you became so much more
malleable to Jehan and Soren's suggestions. After a
while, you wouldn't even listen to anyone else! I found
that so useful, especially after trying to deal with that
tiresome father of yours. He wouldn't accept anything
of mine."
She pouted; another expression that must have
looked very pretty on the Carlotta of aforetime, and
looked so horrible on this monster that Alaire shud-
dered. The King was turning purple with suppressed
anger, and Kai had gone quite white. Lyam only
looked resigned, as if he had expected something of
the sort. There was no visible effect of this revelation
on Naitachal, but then, the Dark Elf had always been
difficult to read
Naitachal had been bound tightly, and gagged; Car-
lotta was taking no chances on his even humming
anything, Alaire suspected.
"And Naitachal!" the creature said in a parody of
sweetness. "How very pleasant to see you here! I
confess, this was a benefit I had not even thought
of, much less hoped for! I thought that I would have
to seek you and Tich'ki out all by myself — once my
conquest of Suinomen and Althea was complete, of
course. It is a pity that you two are the last of my
enemies still alive — although I suppose I can take a
kind of belated revenge on my brother Amber by
destroying his descendants. That dratted Kevin died
childless, more's the pity. Although, in a way, you
are both his child and the child of his Master." She
regarded him thoughtfully. "So you became a Bard
and renounced your former magics. The more fool
you, Naitachal. You should know that the Dark
Powers will always overcome the Light. To give up
the greater power for the sake of the lesser is the act
of an idiot —" She laughed. "And now I have
stopped your lips, and removed your puny Bardic
power from you. You are helpless, Naitachal. Think
on that for a moment!"
But Naitachal didn't give anything up, Alaire
thought, puzzled. He must have told me a hundred
times that you can't "give up" Necromancy, you can
only stop practicing it. The knowledge and the power
stay with you, whether you like it or not —
But Carlotta had turned her attention to Lyam,
ignoring Naitachal for the moment "And Lyam, good,
honest Lyam. You thought your spies were good ones.
Did the King know you still kept your network of
informers after he made Jehan his Spymaster? No?
Why how remiss of you not to tell him!" She laughed.
"But your spies never told you about me, did they? So
perhaps —"
Alaire never had a chance to find out what that
"perhaps" was all about — for at that moment,
Naitachal called upon the powers he had not used in a
hundred years — powers that did not require the use
of voice or hands.
The guard holding him gasped once.
In a single instant of time, the man's hair faded
from black to white, his skin wrinkled and sagged, and
he collapsed, falling, even as Alaire watched in numb
horror, into ancient dust.
And Naitachal's eldritch eyes blazed, not blue, but red
The bonds holding him parted with a crack; he
pulled the gag from his mouth with one hand, and ges-
tured with the other — and a sword suddenly
appeared in it. A sword as black as night, that swal-
lowed up all the light — and which, as Naitachal sliced
into the torso of the guard behind him, laughed softly
when it touched the man's flesh.
Naitachal did not deliver more than a scratch —
and yet the guard collapsed in the boneless way of a
man struck dead on the spot.
Gods. A Death Sword! Alaire had only that single
moment of realization — because all seven hells were
breaking loose at once.
Carlotta shrieked, and raised her stubby arms. The
rest of the guards recognized the sorcerous origin —
and power! — of Naitachal's weapon, and backed
away frantically. Lyam and the King took advantage of
their fear and confusion; Lyam bent over and butted
the nearest of his captors in the stomach with his head,
and the King slammed his considerable weight down
on his jailer's foot, then cracked him in the jaw with a
quickly raised knee when he bent over. In moments,
they were free and armed, and squaring off against
opponents.
Carlotta began lashing the crowd impartially with
bolts of power, until Naitachal banished his Death
Sword and stepped between her and her intended
victims, his own hands upraised, and black energy
pouring from them and forming a shield between Car-
lotta and the rest of her lair.
He's using his Necromantic powers to save us all —
Powers Alaire knew Naitachal had hoped never to use
again.
Powers that could claim him for their own, and this
time, with no turning back. The Powers of Darkness
were jealous masters, and both Naitachal and his
bardling knew how narrow his escape from them had
been. Invoking them now could mean an end to his
cherished life as a Bard.
But there was no time to think about that. Kai was
already halfway out of their hiding place, trying to get
to his father's side to aid him, and Alaire could do
nothing else but follow.
With Naitachal involved in holding off Carlotta, and
thus effectively out of the fight, the guards had
regained their courage and were trying to retake their
prisoners. Alaire and Kai arrived none too soon. The
King and Lyam fought back-to-back, surrounded on
all sides by enemies. Jehan had singled out Lyam for
his own target, and was proving to be no mean adver-
sary. Kai fought to get to his father, with a
single-minded ferocity that frightened Alaire, and a
blood-thirstiness that astounded him.
All Alaire could think to do was to protect Nai-
tachal's back from any of the guards who might think
to come at him while his attention was on Carlotta. So
he cut his way across the room, and stood defending
his Master, doing his best to ignore the flying bolts of
power, the dark smokes, and the licking flames of the
magic raging between them.
Then, just as he fended off yet another attacker,
Carlotta sent a lance of power, not at Naitachal — but
at Archenomen.
And in deflecting that unexpected side-attack, Nai-
tachal's own defenses slipped. Quick as a striking
snake, Carlotta let off another bolt of power, that
penetrated his shields and struck him squarely in the
chest.
Naitachal fell without a sound. Alaire then did the
bravest thing he had ever done in his life.
He stepped between Carlotta and his fallen Master,
heart in his mouth, fear screaming along every nerve,
ready to defend the Dark Elf with his life.
Carlotta took one look at him, and laughed.
She made a single brushing motion, as if shooing
away a fly. Alaire found himself sailing across the
room, slamming into the wall so hard he saw stars, and
every bit of breath was driven from his body. He slid
down the wall, helpless, gasping for breath, tears of
anger and frustration springing from his eyes.
"Oh, Naitachal!" Carlotta laughed, her shrill voice
clearly audible over the clash of swords. "You com-
plete fool! You have been away from the Dark Powers
for too long! I am the Master here! I shall slay you, just
as I will slay your friends, just as I slew that cretin, that
oh-so-holy, ever-so-noble vapor-brained White Elf Eli-
athanis —"
Only Alaire saw what happened then. Naitachal
had been broken, defeated, until the moment Carlotta
spoke the name of the White Elf who had been his
friend. And in that moment — Naitachal became
unrecognizable.
His eyes blazed up again, and went from fiery red,
to lightless black. He rose up, his face a mask that
Alaire shrunk back from in terror. And before Carlotta
could react, he crossed the room in a single bound —
And with a terrible, backhanded blow to her face,
knocked her over backwards.
She lay on her back, tiny arms and legs flailing in
the air in what would have been a funny sight, if Nai-
tachal's unhuman expression had not sucked any touch
of humor from the entire situation. And while Carlotta
lay at his feet in stunned and helpless shock, he took a
step backwards —
— and began to sing.
But Alaire knew from the first note that this was no
ordinary working of Bardic Magic. In fact, no other
Bard in the history of the world could have produced
this blood-chilling melody. For this was an unholy
melding of Bardic and Necromantic Magics, a Song of
Unmaking that was so terrible, and so powerful, that
Alaire cringed against the wall and stopped his ears
with his fingers, weeping at the despair and fear it
engendered in him.
Nor was he alone. No one else could stand against
that song. Several of the guards gave up completely,
and fled the scene before they were overcome. Lyam
had just enough time to knock Jehan to the floor,
unconscious, before he too had to back away with his
hands over his ears. Kai and his father clung together,
tears streaming down their cheeks with the pain the
song invoked in them.
And Carlotta began to scream.
Horribly, Naitachal took that scream and incorpo-
rated it into his song.
Alaire hid his face, unable to look, once the scream-
ing began. It sounded as if every pain Carlotta had
ever inflicted was being delivered back to her, three-
fold He hoped he would never be able to remember
this moment — this eternity. It was worse than the
spell that held his soul in the crystal, infinitely worse.
All he could do was to remember the song that his
mother Grania had sung to him, and the song he had
made of it; he clung to that song while the other went
on and on —
And finally, ceased
He looked up in the sudden silence. There was no
sign of Carlotta, and no sign that she had ever been
there, except for the tentlike garment that had cov-
ered her, now lying limply on the floor.
Naitachal turned.
He gestured, and the Death Sword was in his hand
again. And the inhuman expression on his face had not
changed.
He doesn't know us — Alaire thought, fear forcing
him to his feet again. He doesn't remember us! The
Dark Powers have taken him for their own again, just
as he feared! He's going to kill us all!
He had thought that stepping between Carlotta and
Naitachal was the bravest thing he would ever do in
his life. He discovered that there was one thing braver.
He stepped between Naitachal and the rest of the
room.
And as the Dark Elf's eyes focused on him, and the
hand holding the Death Sword rose, he began to sing.
He started with the song of himself, but this time,
he concentrated on all the things that Naitachal had
meant to him, how much the elf had taught him. All
the moments they had shared, laughter and sadness,
defeat and achievement. As Naitachal's Song had been
one of Unmaking, this was a Song of Making.
Naitachal paused. His eyes changed, going from
black, to a sullen red.
Alaire continued, pouring his soul into the song,
now calling on his memory for everything he had ever
heard or read of Naitachal's life as a Bard — from
Kevins time, to Gawaine's, to this very moment.
Reminding him how important Life and Light were to
him — and how trivial Death and Darkness were in
the face of Light and Life.
He sang friendship, he sang hope, he sang joy. And
then, greatly daring, he sang of Eliathanis, whose sac-
rifice had saved Naitachal so long ago — whose name
had roused Naitachal to his deadly rage. He sang of all
that the White Elves believed in. And he told Nai-
tachal, with his music, that Eliathanis would have
perished in vain, if Naitachal returned now to the
Dark he had rejected.
Slowly, the man that Alaire knew and respected
came back to Naitachal's face — and the eyes faded
from red to deep and vital blue again.
But as Naitachal blinked, and looked down at the
sword in his hand, his expression turned soul-sick and
filled with repugnance for what he had done. With an
oath, he cast the Death Sword from him, and it disin-
tegrated in mid-air.
Time froze for an instant. Lyam, the King and Kai
stared at the Dark Elf with fear and horror in their
eyes. Those few guards that remained tried to crawl
away.
Alaire did not consciously decide what to do at that
moment. He saw only the agony in his friend's eyes,
and he acted on it, with sure and certain instinct.
He walked across the room to Naitachal, looked up
into his Master's eyes, and placed one hand trustingly
on his arm. "Master," he said, calmly, and simply, "you
yourself have taught me that there is a time for making
and unmaking. There was no other choice."
The fear faded from Lyam's eyes, and Kai's. The
Captain sheathed his sword, the movement drawing
Naitachal's gaze to where he stood.
The Captain nodded, then said, gruffly, "Some-
times the only weapon you have is one you hope you
never have to use. It happens. You move on, and try to
make up for whatever you did, using that weapon."
Naitachal regarded him gravely for a moment, then,
slowly, nodded "I cannot bring back those I slew," he
said, "but at least she will no longer be working her
will on the unsuspecting."
He turned to the King, and bowed gravely. "The
power that moved against you is no more, Majesty,
and the back of the revolt has been broken. What is
your will?"
Archenomen blinked, as if astonished that this crea-
ture of Power should ask him for his will. Then he
drew himself up to his full height, put one arm around
his son, and took on a dignity and power that Alaire
had never seen him possess before. And only then did
he realize how much of a shell the Archenomen he
and Naitachal had seen had been.
"I think," Archenomen said, weighing his words
carefully, "that we all must go and rebuild what Jehan
and his mistress have tried to destroy."
Naitachal sank down into a chair, feeling bone-
weary and sick to his soul. The last of the Association
mages had been brought to him for disposition —
him! As if he was any less guilty than they! They had
been only too happy to tell their stories of corruption
under Jehan's leadership; the tale of their duplicity
was more than enough to finish the Association and all
it stood for. There would be no more Association regu-
lating mages in Suinomen, and no Swords to enforce
their will.
There had been a single moment of mild amuse-
ment, when the King's guards had brought Soren
before him. The chief of the King's mages had been
blubbering with fear, and not because of Naitachal!
No, he had been holding the ring he had taken at
arms' length, terrified of it, and yet more afraid to put
it down. When he had seen Naitachal, he had been
incoherent with gratitude, and had pulled free of the
grip of his captors to fall at Naitachal's feet.
"Please, please take this b-b-blasted ring back!" he
had sobbed. "In the name of the gods, please! It's —
I've —"
Naitachal never did learn what it was that the ring
had done to Soren, but the man had practically been
incontinent with fear of it. He had plucked it out of
Soren's nerveless fingers, while the man babbled grati-
tude, and pledged to reveal anything Naitachal
wanted revealed....
Now he turned the ring over and over in his hands.
His father's ring, the ring of a Necromancer.
Like me... like me...
How could he live with himself, now? More impor-
tantly, how could he ever trust himself again? And if
he could not trust himself, how could anyone trust
him?
He stared into the ruby eyes of the skull; they
seemed to wink at him with sardonic amusement. See,
they seemed to say, your father was right, all along.
"Naitachal?"
The familiar voice broke into his despondent mus-
ings, and he looked up. Alaire stood beside him, harp
in hand, Naitachal's harp tucked under his arm.
"Master," the boy said, with grave formality, "would
you come with me for a moment? I really need your
help with something."
More mages cowering under their bunks, most like,
Naitachal thought glumly — but it was something to
do, something constructive.
Not destructive.
He followed Alaire, listlessly, out of the Association
Hall and back down into the labyrinth below it. Odd,
he thought, as wooden walls gave way to rock, and the
air grew chill. I thought we'd rooted all the mages out
of these tunnels. And there weren't that many down
here to begin with —
But Alaire led him deeper and deeper into the
maze, until at last they came to a place where he had
not yet been.
Alaire opened a door, and icy air rolled out to greet
them. Something else rolled out to greet them — a
wave of power the likes of which he had never felt
before. He stepped inside, and Naitachal followed, all
his senses suddenly on the alert
The room was lit only by the lantern outside the
door — and the dim, white glow of the hexagonal crys-
tals that ringed the upper part of it. Row after row of
them, ensconced in little niches. And below the crys-
tals, row after row of—coffins?
He realized at that moment where they were —
and what this was.
"The Prison of Souls," he whispered
These were the stolen souls of all the hapless vic-
tims the Association had taken.
"Master," Alaire said softly, "we have all tried to
break the spell holding these people prisoner. Everyone
from Soren on down—singly and all together. Carlotta
was the only one who knew how to break it. I could free
myself, because I knew myself, but I can't free them."
He moved so that he could look directly, and
challengingly, into Naitachal's eyes. "You are a
Master Bard," he said forthrightly. "You have all the
power and experience that we don't. You will have
to help me — and them."
It was not a request — it was a demand. And a
rightful demand. He had already pledged this, in a
sense; what Carlotta had done, he must take a certain
responsibility for.
He opened himself to the power of the room, and
sensed the pain of all the imprisoned souls there.
But instead of being excited by it, as any "good"
Necromancer would have been —
— as my father would have been —
— it brought tears, real tears to his eyes. All the
despair — all the lost hope! The tears he so seldom
shed burned down his cheeks, and as Alaire told him
quickly and concisely how the boy had freed himself,
he listened, then reached eagerly for the harp he had
thought he was not worthy to touch again.
Alaire put it into his hands, and he sat down on a
stone bench, resting it against his chest like a lover.
And it felt right there; not heavy and unnatural, as the
Death Sword had felt, but warm and welcoming.
Yes. Yes.
He considered his options, reached for his power
— and began a song combining both making —
restoring those held prisoner to what they had been —
and unmaking — melting away the crystals that held
them prisoner.
He lost himself in the song; this time the unmaking
blended in a bittersweet harmony with the power of
making. He sang until he grew hoarse, and his hands,
exhausted, faltered on the strings.
But then a younger, stronger voice joined his, and
Alaire's smaller harp took up the melody, supporting
the notes of his instrument.
And together, at last, they broke the spell.
The icy crystals melted away, leaving only the bare
walls.
He opened his eyes, and saw that while they had
been singing here, the room had filled with people,
men and women, of all ranks and classes. And as those
people ran to the opening coffins, and began to help
those who had been imprisoned within the boxes to
their feet, he realized that these must be the friends
and relatives of all those who had been brought to this
terrible place.
They crowded the room, taking a moment to touch
his hand in gratitude, to smile tremulously, or to drop
a word of thanks. There was as much joy in this room
now as there had been despair —
No. There is more!
The room warmed with it, until it seemed to be no
longer a prison, but a pair of warm hands, cupping
them all.
The joy filled him, and he closed his eyes again,
opening himself to it, letting it wash away his sickness
of heart.
Finally, they were alone again. But the joy was not
gone; it remained with him still, filling the bleak place
where his Necromantic power had lived and festered
for so long.
"You see, Master?" Alaire said as he opened his eyes
on the empty room. "You aren't what you were. You're
more than the old Necromancer now "— then the boy
grinned, impudently — "and I even think you're more
than Naitachal the Bard, who was afraid to make use
of half his power!"
Naitachal had to smile, still suffused with the joy he
had found, and he cuffed his former apprentice play-
fully. "And who made you so wise of a sudden, Bard
Alaire?"
"Oh, I just —" Alaire did a double-take that was so
comic that Naitachal laughed aloud. "Bard Alaire?" he
exclaimed, astonishment choking off his voice.
Naitachal clapped him on the shoulder. "Anyone
who can face me down in a killing rage and remind me
of what I am is more than worthy to be called Bard,"
he said. "And I will say that to anyone's face."
As Alaire beamed in delight, Naitachal looked
around, feeling a lightness of spirit that he had not
expected ever to have again. "I think we have both
been changed profoundly by this place, young friend."
Alaire shrugged, shyly. "You're still a Master, and
still my Master, no matter what. But — you know, I
would really like to go home now."
Naitachal sighed happily, thinking of his house, his
garden, the view of the stars from his little tower.
"Yes," he said with content. "Home. What a good
sound that word has. Musical..."
"Musical?" Alaire grinned widely. "Why Naitachal,
do I hear a song coming on?"
"Another? Dear gods, boy, will you have me play
my fingers to the bone?" Naitachal exclaimed, and
made to cuff him again. Alaire ducked and laughed.
"I think it can wait, oh noble Master," the boy said,
standing up, and taking both their instruments, like
the apprentice he was no longer. "But there are a lot of
people who would like to thank you properly. Then
you can make your song. After we are home."
"Indeed," Naitachal replied, with serene happiness.
"All things in their time. That is a properly elven atti-
tude. I think I might have taught you something after
all!"
And together they left the Prison, to greet the
newly freed mages.