Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

"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 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 t 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, t 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 inf 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 S 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.

Chapte 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.