Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

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 Dark Elves, and if they have, do you really think they would give me any trouble? If the reputation of 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."

Chapt 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 unif 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 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 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.