Mercedes Lackey & Mark Sheperd - Bard's Tale 03

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v1.0 Scanned and spellchecked by Jaks (still needs proofreading and formatting)

PRISON OF SOULS

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in

this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Books Original

The Bard's Tale characters and descriptions are the sole property

of Electronic Arts and are used by permission. The Bard's Tale is a

registered trademark of Electronic Arts.

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

ISBN: 0-671-72193-3

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First printing, November 1993

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter I

"Let's begin," Naitachal said, casting his black cloak to

one side and raising his practice sword in salute. "And

see if you can get through this drill without tripping

over yourself." He smiled, softening the sarcasm just a

little. Few ever saw a Dark Elf smile and survived to

tell about it; but Naitachal's smile meant only what

any human's would, and it warmed his cold blue eyes

in a way that no other Dark Elf could match.

His apprentice Alaire returned the salute with his

practice sword, and stifled a sardonic reply.

This time, Master Naitachal, you'd better watch out,

Alaire thought as he checked his footing on the coarse

gravel. I've been practicing while you were away!

They faced each other on the small practice field of

the Dark Elf's modest estate. Alaire was a head taller

than his mentor, but Naitachal had decades of experi-

ence. Both were slender, rather than heavily muscled.

At high noon the sun shone directly from above, a dis-

advantage to neither swordsmen.

The contest began, a graceful dance of flesh and

wood, their oak swords clacking away in the bright

sun. Alaire lunged early, catching Naitachal by sur-

prise. But the elf parried and thrust easily, slipping out

of the trap the youth was setting up, trying to pin the

elf against a tree. Alaire charged, using his blade like a

broadsword, and using his greater reach to force his

Master to the edge of the field. Naitachal tucked and

rolled, becoming a blur of black motion that vanished

behind Alaire before he turned, then reappeared at

the periphery of Alaire's vision.

"I thought you said no magic!" Alaire protested,

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fielding a counterattack with difficulty.

"None used," Naitachal said smoothly. "Pay atten-

tion to the sword, lad."

Alaire yielded to Naitachal's powerful, but meas-

ured thrusts, hoping to gain control of the contest. The

Dark Elf tripped and wavered momentarily as he lost

his balance, but gained it back quickly.

"Good move," Naitachal said, as their weapons

clacked; the contest fell into a mesmerizing rhythm as

Alaire probed for a weakness in the Dark Elf's

defense. 'Ten more of those and we might come out

even."

The bardling grinned; he Liked how his teacher

turned praise into a demand for more and better

effort. It kept the game interesting.

Alaire sensed that the Dark Elf was intentionally

ignoring his weaker left side. Only yesterday Naitachal

had drilled him endlessly, attacking on his left, until

that side ached. Now... nothing. Even as he consid-

ered this, Naitachal sidestepped off the field, ducked

behind a tree and came out on the weaker left.

Alaire was ready. Instead of backpedaling he lunged

again. The tip of the sword touched the edge of Nai-

tachal's black tunic, but no more; the elf had

sidestepped. Alaire cursed softly, catching a glint of

amusement in Naitachal's dark blue eyes.

Anger surged briefly over him as the swords clashed,

though Naitachal was only doing what any Master

should. The pace of the combat increased. The two

moved back towards the center of the practice field,

kicking up dust in the process. Naitachal was not going

to relinquish his control of the combat that easily. The

Dark Elf's breathing was a little more labored now.

After first faking high to lure Alaire's point away from

his intended target, the elf came in low with his sword.

Alaire deflected it, knocking the elf's swordtip into the

dirt. If he'd parried a little harder, he might have

disarmed his Master, and that would have been a first.

Too easy. Far too easy, Alaire thought, wondering

what distracted his mentor today. Normally he would

have landed me on my backside by now. He knew he

was an average swordsman; Naitachal was a master,

with uncounted years of practice behind him. Was

something wrong? Had the elf learned something on

his last journey to cause him worry?

The bardlings thoughts wandered slightly, enough

to give the Dark Elf an advantage.

"Look!" Naitachal shouted, pointing with his free

hand. "A comet!"

Alaire looked without thinking, following Nai-

tachal's gaze and pointing finger, to something above

and behind him. As his attention wavered, Naitachal

dropped his own blade to the side and shouldered into

him. The next second, he was sitting in the dust in an

undignified heap.

Naitachal regarded him calmly with disappoint-

ment and faint, elven amusement. "I can't believe you

fell for that, bardling."

"Not fair!" Alaire protested weakly, somehow man-

aging to laugh at himself. Boy, was that stupid. Fell, or

rather stepped, right into that one. "I was winning and

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you cheated."

"If you were really winning you wouldn't be sitting

there like that," Naitachal said. "We're getting to the

point in your training when almost anything is fair.

The real world is like that. Assassins," he added, his

sword waving in the sunlight as if to punctuate the

sentence, "will go to any lengths to kill their mark."

"What would an assassin want with me?" he replied,

but only half seriously. Someone might want me dead,

if only to get at my father. Being the eighth son of the

King put him in an awkward position. Derek, the first

born and oldest brother, would almost certainly

become king one day. The other brothers were train-

ing for important government or military positions.

Yet, the King had never planned on having so many

sons. As he once half-complained to the Queen, any

other woman would have produced at least a few

daughters along the way. Eventually he ran out of

things to do with them.

Alaire, being the eighth and youngest son, enjoyed

the rare luxury of choosing his life's work. He had been

a very precocious child, and at six, he had decided to

become a Bard. Fortunately, Naitachal was an old

friend of the King as well as a loyal friend to many

generations of the family. No one questioned who his

Master would be.

This had not been a childish whim, but a real voca-

tion. Naitachal had been able to assure the King that

his son's talent was considerable, and that all would be

well.

In many ways, his choice of lifework made him a

less likely mark. The older brothers would certainly

make better targets than he would. However, Alaire

could not ignore the possibility that he could be sin-

gled out by young toughs looking for a fight Naitachal

had often pointed this out when he was sitting in the

dust after a thorough trouncing.

For a year Alaire had trained under the King's Bard

Laureate, Gawaine, and under his guidance convinced

everyone that he had an exceptional degree of musi-

cal, and magical, talent. However, Gawaine was

getting no younger; he had other students besides

Alaire, as well as the enormous burden demanded by

his office of Laureate. Gawaine eventually found it

increasingly difficult to keep up with the workload.

Since Alaire was hardly an ordinary, common student,

Gawaine had known he ran the risk of favoring him

over the other bardlings. It would have been a situ-

ation fraught with trouble for a younger man than

Gawaine; for the Laureate, it was something he simply

did not have the strength to deal with.

By this time Alaire was eight, and he had heard

enough tales about Naitachal to be both excited and

alarmed by having him as his Master. Though he had

"always" assumed Naitachal would be his teacher, he

certainly didn't know what to expect from the mysteri-

ous elf; the Necromancers becoming a Bard was

bizarre enough. He had never seen a Dark Elf before;

he'd had no notion that his father had used the name

"Dark Elf" so literally.

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In the bright, airy colors of the court, Naitachal had

stood out like a drop of ink on a white lace tablecloth.

The black cloak he wore habitually flowed about him

as if it were liquid, and the tunic, hose and boots

seemed to absorb whatever light hit them, as if the

Bard's body was a place that canceled daylight. Top-

ping the darkness was his straight, silver hair that hung

down his back, long as all elves wore it, and swept

gracefully from side to side as he turned. His brilliant

blue eyes, twin pools of color in the smooth black skin

of that ageless face, burned right through Alaire when

they first met. They distracted him, even now, during

sword practice. Alaire soon found out Naitachal was

no ordinary Dark Elf, if there could be such a thing.

The somber darkness that seemed to follow him wher-

ever he went was only deceptive camouflage; within

lurked an absurdly cheerful Bard, a master of his

trade, as well as a teacher of other, more practical

skills.

Naitachal had often reminded him of his royal obli-

gations and duties, and the possibility that one day he

might be nearer the throne than he was now. How-

ever, this was the first time Naitachal had mentioned

assassins.

It disturbed him at first, but after a moment of

reflection, he shrugged it off. Sometimes the meaning

of the elf's words didn't become clear for days or even

weeks.

He's probably talking about years from now, when I

join Fathers court. Right now, the prospect of Alaire's

ever having to deal with an assassin seemed vague.

How would an assassin get out here near Fenrich, this

remote village on the northeast coast? And once here,

how could he ever be less than conspicuous?

Alaire loved this place, its peace and quiet, although

he knew it would probably drive his brothers mad with

boredom to stay here for more than a day. It seemed

the ideal location to learn Bardic skills as well as

magic; after all, there were few distractions here to

speak of.

Naitachal had chosen this location to settle, in part

because of the isolation, but also because the village

folk readily accepted him as himself. His money was

good, after all. In times of trouble Naitachal had gen-

erously given his time and magical expertise, winning

considerable popularity among the townsfolk.

Alaire stood and brushed the dust off his breeches,

nursing some pride back into his damaged ego.

"Living out here on the edge of the kingdom

doesn't change your lineage," Naitachal reminded

him. "There's always the chance some enemy of your

father's may want to kidnap you and hold you for ran-

som. This is more likely to happen, though the same

people often kidnap or kill with equal indifference."

"Perhaps," he said, acknowledging Naitachal's

warning, but not really believing he could ever be a

target. At least, not while he was a mere bardling, and

under Naitachal's supervision. First, so few people

knew he even existed, and even fewer knew he was

way out here, Next Door to Nowhere. He didn't like

the sudden serious turn the conversation had taken,

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but then what could one expect from a Dark Elf ?

Despite Naitachal's cheer he sometimes lapsed into

the gloom and doom of his own kind. The bardling

had met only a few Dark Elves, who were far more

morbid than his Master had ever been.

No, it was probably just that Naitachal was having

one of those relapses into depression. Probably no one

remembered his existence, outside his own family.

Alaire could almost forget his royal blood out here on

the outskirts of the kingdom.

It's a good thing I'm the eighth son. I know I could

never handle being king. Lucky Derek, he has the

throne and all its responsibilities to look forward to.

By now he must feel like an actor in a play, with all his

lines and actions written out for him.

Alaire struggled to his feet and answered Nai-

tachal's salute with one of his own.

"We aren't finished yet," the Dark Elf said.

As if I was worried we might not be, Alaire thought,

heeding the challenge nevertheless.

Naitachal struck with a vengeance, taking Alaire by

surprise. What's gotten into him? The boy thought as

he frantically defended himself. The elf was attacking

his left side, just as he had the day before.

He did his best, but it became painfully evident that

either Naitachal had been toying with him earlier, or

else he had been distracted by something and was

now leveling his full concentration on the bout. Within

moments, Alaire was struggling just to keep from

being scored on.

Within a few breaths, it was obvious that he was not

going to manage even that.

"Hit," Naitachal declared; the swordpoint wavered

just above his heart. "You're dead."

Alaire froze, then dropped his swordpoint to the

ground.

They both bowed, formally, as the etiquette of

Swordmaster and pupil demanded. Then both

grinned, and Alaire wiped sweat from his forehead

with his sleeve.

"Let's take a break," Naitachal said, "then back to

work."

"I was about ready for a breather," Alaire admitted,

omitting the real reason he wanted to stop: he wanted

a drink to wash away the dust he'd eaten.

They set their wooden swords on a small rack near

the practice field and went to the well beside the front

door. Dipping a ladle into the bucket of ice-cold water,

Alaire drank deeply, clearing his mouth of the dirt.

Naitachal drank too, though he didn't seem winded

or even truly tired. His folk have a constitution we

humans can only dream of, the bardling thought with

envy, at the same time uttering a brief prayer to the

gods that be that he would never have to fight an elf

for real. The practices are hell enough!

Naitachal's age was as much an enigma now as it

had been when Alaire first met him. From some of the

old songs and tales, Alaire learned that he had been

around in King Amber's time. Even then he was old by

human standards.

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Now's a good time to ask him again, Alaire thought.

He might even answer. He'd met only with annoying

silence every other time he'd inquired.

"You know, you seem to be holding up well for

someone as, well, old as you," Alaire ventured, cau-

tiously. Naitachal frowned; but then, he usually did

when that question came up. The bardling's words still

came out wrong, as if his mouth assumed a will of its

own whenever he asked something personal about his

Master. Inwardly, Alaire winced. He didn't want to

annoy the elf, particularly when the swords were

within reach. The next bout might be even harder!

"How old are you, Master?"

The elf took his time answering. Alaire wondered if

he had ignored what had become a rather rude ques-

tion, or had chosen not to hear it.

"You're all of nineteen years old, young bardling,"

Naitachal began softly, after drinking from the ladle.

His eyes softened, and Alaire sighed in relief. "A mere

infant. A toddler. At best, a child." He smiled wistfully,

as if considering a secret, amusing thought. "I am old

by your standards."

Alaire waited, but the elf did not answer.

"Well?" Alaire asked.

"Older than you think," he said, "and not as old as

the hills or the trees." That seemed to be the end of

that.

The boy shrugged, deciding to drop that particular

line of questioning, but his curiosity still burned. Nai-

tachal served King Amber. From what Father told me,

he was quite the hero. He mentioned that he was

involved with doing away with Carlotta. He shivered

whenever he thought of the evil princess who had

tried to seize the throne by kidnapping the rightful

heir, Prince Amber. The story had real meaning in his

family. His descent from Amber gave it more impact

than "just a tale." This particular bedtime story had

places where Father would say, "And then Amber

used to say..." or "Gawaine told me that Kevin ..."

Carlotta failed, and then vanished. Years later she

reappeared and hatched a plot involving Count Vol-

mar and a book of Bardic spells. Gawaine's own

teacher, Kevin, had searched for the book in Volmar's

library, found it, and used it to defeat her.

That was all Alaire knew about the incident. The

royal family seldom discussed it, even among relatives,

and kept the details to themselves. Alaire knew there

was some kind of scandal the royal family wanted to

keep hushed up, but he didn't know the details.

Perhaps Naitachal knows.

"I feel more comfortable with the sword now, Mas-

ter Naitachal," Alaire ventured. "It's becoming a part

of me, as you said it would, I'm sorry I came to you

with such holes in my education. My brother Grant

promised me training, but he became so involved with

his own he must have forgotten."

Naitachal ignored him. Alaire knew from experi-

ence, however, that he wasn't missing anything.

Alaire scratched his head a little; his hair was

sweat-damp and his scalp itched. "Still, I never expected

weapons training when Father sent me here. Is this the

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kind of fighting you used when you defeated Carlotta?"

At the mention of the evil princess, Naitachal

turned slowly. The look he gave Alaire turned the boy's

spine to ice. His skin crawled uncomfortably, as if it

were trying to slither off his body. Gods, I hope that

wasn't the wrong thing to say, he thought. He could

kill me with one look, if he dared.

"Who said we defeated Carlotta?" Naitachal replied

casually.

The words stunned Alaire. What is he trying to say

this time? "Are you speaking in riddles to confuse

me?" Alaire asked, finally. "Or are you just posing

questions to make me think?"

Naitachal replaced the ladle and dropped the

bucket back into the well, then gave Alaire an

appraising look. "They never told you the entire story,

did they?"

Alaire perked up at the prospect of hearing some

secrets from his family's past. They never went into

much detail when I was around; all I ever got was the

bedtime story, with the moral "be good, or Carlotta

will carry you off."

Sometimes when he walked into his father's study,

and his mother and Grant and Drake were talking, he

would overhear something about Carlotta. As soon as

they saw him, everyone got really quiet.

He hadn't paid as much attention to his own fam-

ily's past as he might have. There was all the scope of

history to learn, a vast mine to delve in for gems that

could become songs. It would have seemed presump-

tuous to use his family as a basis for balladry. Still, the

mysterious story of Carlotta occasionally nagged at

him. Even if he was not likely to become king, he still

wondered what had happened back then, and why

they were keeping it from him.

"No," he said quickly. "No one ever did. The whole

family has been rather evasive about Carlotta."

'Then perhaps I should keep quiet as well," the

Dark Elf replied slyly.

"Not that they were intentionally keeping it a secret

from me," he quickly supplied. "I'm sure they just

never, well, had the time. Or the chance, I mean,

there are some things you just don't discuss with chil-

dren. I've been here what, eight years now?"

"Nine," Naitachal said. "And you were never curi-

ous about it before."

"I'm nineteen now. I'm not a child." Alaire withered

under Naitachal's answering look, which seemed to

say, oh, are you not, really?

His Master shrugged. "The royal family never

swore me to secrecy on everything. I insisted on a free

rein in your upbringing, and got it. What would you

like to know?"

"Details. Like, did you use this kind of swordsman-

ship," he said, pointing towards the rack of swords,

practice and the lethal, metal kind. "Or something a

little more esoteric?"

"I was not the hero," Naitachal said, "and I'm still

not certain any victory was had on that day, by any-

one."

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His gaze turned brooding, as it always did when he

was about to relate some story from the past. Naitachal

gift for tale-telling extended beyond songs and ballads,

and Alaire settled back with a feeling of anticipation.

"It began before I became involved," Naitachal

said, with a sideways glance at his apprentice. "A Bard

named Aidan sent his apprentice, Kevin, to the librar-

ies of Count Volmar to copy a manuscript called The

Study of Ancient Song."

Alaire nodded, although he had known all this

before.

"Thirty years before, Aidan had prevented Carlotta

from stealing her brother's throne. At the time, he

thought Carlotta had been disposed of, but he had

recently learned that she was still alive. Although the

situation had changed, Carlotta's ambition had not.

Since you humans have such brief lives, Aidan was

now an old man and didn't have the strength to deal

with Carlotta. His apprentice, Kevin, was only seven-

teen then."

Naitachal shook his head, as if he could not believe

the years had passed so quickly. "Kevin was young,

eager, and dying to have an Adventure. What he

lacked in brains and maturity he more than made up

with enthusiasm. However, he was rather reluctant to

go off to copy some old manuscript. Aidan didn't tell

him how important it was."

"If Aidan was an old man, then wasn't Carlotta an

old woman?" Alaire asked, puzzled.

"Yes, and no." Naitachal frowned. "Carlotta was half

fairy and a shape-changer. Because of her fairy blood

she lived as long as any halfling. As a shape-changer

she could simply shift herself out of the ravages of old

age. By that time, she had also mastered many of the

Darker Arts. She was a fair match for anyone."

Alaire had never heard this before. Now he knew

why. A member of the royal family was a halfbreed,

and she was practicing black magic? Good gods, no

wonder they wanted to keep this secret.

Naitachal took no notice of his shock. "Kevin was all

alone in an unfriendly place, so it wasn't hard for Car-

lotta to learn what Aidan had sent him to do. She won

Kevin's confidence by assuming the form of Volmar's

pretty young niece, Charina. This was easy enough for

a shape-changer, and the result was quite effective. I

believe Kevin had even fallen in love with her. "

Alaire closed his mouth and nodded wisely. "What

happened to the real niece?" he asked. This was not

part of the bedtime story, which usually never got past

the tale of Amber and Aidan.

Naitachal sighed. "What you might expect. The

Count, we later discovered, murdered her to get her

out of the way. She apparently knew something was

afoot." He shook his head. "Poor little thing. They

killed her before she could enjoy her life."

He brooded on that for a moment, and Alaire gen-

tly prodded him back onto the story. "So Kevin came

to copy the manuscript, and Carlotta found out what

he was doing. Why didn't she simply take the manu-

script?"

Naitachal chuckled. "Because the manuscript hid

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itself from anyone except Aidan or his deputy. When

the manuscript disappeared, Carlotta and Volmar

staged the disappearance of the fake 'niece' out of des-

peration. They blamed both Dark and White Elves for

the 'kidnapping,' and that was how I became involved.

I was visiting Volmar's court during some rather aim-

less travels. Count Volmar appointed Kevin to lead a

search party. To clear my people's name I volunteered

to help."

So that's where you came in, Alaire thought. This is

getting interesting.

Naitachal squinted up at the sun for a moment.

"None of us knew the book in question had a hidden

spell in it, a spell that could 'unmake' Carlotta. Which

is to say, to return her to her original fairy form."

Alaire nodded somberly. "Only full blood humans

can sit on the throne of Althea." Inwardly, he was both

excited and a little appalled. A fairy? In the royal fam-

ily? I would really like to know how that happened! If

Carlotta is half fairy, my great-great-great-grand-

father must have — ahem. His ears burned as he won-

dered how a human and a diminutive fairy could

have —

Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

Naitachal continued. "Our party would have failed

if not for Kevin's leadership. He made us all work

together in spite of our continuous bickering. Not sur-

prising, since the Count intended us to fail, and chose

us for that reason. We were an Amazon, a fairy, myself

and a White Elven fighter. Anyone would have

thought we would never stay together for more than a

day. We became certain, in the course of some inter-

esting adventures, that Count Volmar had sent us

away so Carlotta could find the manuscript. "

I would truly like to hear that in detail, Alaire

thought, but Naitachal was obviously trying to make

this a short tale.

"In time we returned to the castle, discovered that

'Charina's' captors had 'released' her. The Count

treated us like heroes even though we had done

nothing to rescue her." His expression became grim.

"We were all highly suspicious, and as a precaution I

spent an evening fortifying Kevin with magical

protection. We were certain now that Carlotta was

somewhere around in disguise, possibly as Charina,

although we could not be sure. When Kevin finally

found the manuscript, Carlotta was there beside him.

She knew what it was, and she wanted it. If we hadn't

fled Volmar's castle when we did, she would have

seized it and destroyed us. She pursued us with her

magics. Not all of us survived those magics..."

His voice trailed off, and Alaire saw something he

had never seen before on his Master's face.

Grief.

He dared not interrupt, although he was burning to

hear the end of it all.

Naitachal seemed to shake himself, and completed

the tale. "When we returned to Volmar's castle it was

with a band of some traveling musicians. Kevin

thought they were his Master's human friends, but

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actually they were elves and allies of King Amber. Vol-

mar was staging a grand event of some sort, inviting

nobles from all over, and we suspected it had some-

thing to do with Carlotta. We knew we had to work

quickly."

"And you were a hero," Alaire said.

Naitachal shook his head. "Hardly. It was Bard

Kevin, for he was truly a Bard by then, who should get

the credit for what happened In a short time he mas-

tered the spell, and delivered it flawlessly, once

Volmar and Carlotta appeared. There, before every-

body, she returned to her original, fairy form."

"I thought she died," Alaire said. "That's what

Mother said. Gawaine thought so, too."

Naitachal laughed, but it had no humor in it. "That's

what the Queen wants to believe, but alas, I'm afraid

that simply isn't what happened. Carlotta escaped in

the melee that followed. It was all we could do to keep

Volmar's soldiers from executing us on the spot. His

men followed him blindly, and it was only when they

saw Charina's ghost, who openly accused the Count of

her murder, that their loyalties turned. And I had

nothing to do with that! By then I'd had my fill of Nec-

romancy." He took a deep breath and his face cleared

of the shadows of the past. "And that is the end of that

tale. Where Carlotta went after that is anyone's guess.

She didn't die. She only changed."

"Do you think Carlotta is still alive?" Alaire had to

admit he didn't feel too comfortable with the chance

that Carlotta still lived.

Naitachal seemed to consider this seriously for a

moment, but Alaire suspected he already had an opin-

ion formulated "Simply put, yes, though I haven't the

first clue where she would be, or when she might sur-

face. It's not worth worrying about, at least not at the

moment. You have more important tasks at hand, such

as learning real swordsmanship." He laughed again,

this time with real humor. "When I think how Kevin

begged the Amazon and me to teach him the sword!

And how horrified his Master was when he learned

that we had!"

Alaire's thoughts, and gaze, had drifted during the

brief history lesson. Perhaps this was why he didn't

notice when Naitachal slipped over to the swordrack

and retrieved his weapon. He even managed to hide

it, until now.

"I hold a weapon," Naitachal said, smirking, and

saluting him with the practice sword. "Why don't you?"

Alaire opened his mouth to say something, but

nothing came out. Damn him, the boy thought. He

knows when I'm not paying attention! That's when he

pulls these little stunts!

The Dark Elf tossed Alaire the wooden sword,

which he caught skillfully by the hilt, then took

another from the rack.

"On your guard," Naitachal said. Alaire took the

position, and tried to focus on the swords. Carlotta's

story still haunted him.

Naitachal quickly tore into him, with more energy

than he expected; once he started trying to avoid the

elf instead of countering his blows, he knew it was all

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Mercedes Lackey & Mark Sheperd - Bard's Tale 03 - Prison Of

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