Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

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 arriv 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 conf 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,"

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 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 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. 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 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?