Mercedes Lackey - Prison of Souls

Naitachal had to smile, still suffused with the joy he had found, and he cuffed his former apprentice play- fully. "And who made you so wise of a sudden, Alaire?"

"Oh, I just -- " Alaire did a double-take that was so comic that Naitachal laughed aloud. "Bard Alaire?" he exclaimed, astonishment choking off his voice.

Naitachal clapped him on the shoulder. "Anyone who can face me down in a killing rage and remind me of what I am is more than worthy to be called Bard," he said. "And I will say that to anyone's face."

As Alaire beamed in delight, Naitachal looked around, feeling a lightness of spirit that he had not expected ever to have again. "I think we have both been changed profoundly by this place, young friend."

Alaire shrugged, shyly. "You're still a Master, and still my Master, no matter what. But -- you know, I would really like to go home now."

Naitachal sighed happily, thinking of his house, his garden, the view of the stars from his little tower.

"Yes," he said with content. "Home. What a good sound that word has. Musical..."

"Musical?" Alaire grinned widely. "Why Naitachal, do I hear a song coming on?"

"Another? Dear gods, boy, will you have me play my fingers to the bone?" Naitachal exclaimed, and made to cuff him again. Alaire ducked and laughed.

"I think it can wait, oh noble Master," the boy said, standing up, and taking both their instruments, like the apprentice he was no longer. "But there are a lot of people who would like to thank you properly. Then you can make your song. After we are home."

"Indeed," Naitachal replied, with serene happiness.

"All things in their time. That is a properly elven atti- tude. I think I might have taught you something after all!"

And together they left the Prison, to greet the newly freed mages.