Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

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 w 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 abou 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.