Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

"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 "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 bec 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, 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 M 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 o 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."