"I think," Archenomen said, weighing his words carefully, "that we all must go and rebuild what Jehan and his mistress have tried to destroy."
Naitachal sank down into a chair, feeling bone- weary and sick to his soul. The last of the Association mages had been brought to him for disposition -- him! As if he was any less guilty than they! They had been only too happy to tell their stories of corruption under Jehan's leadership; the tale of their duplicity was more than enough to finish the Association and all it stood for. There would be no more Association regu- lating mages in Suinomen, and no Swords to enforce their will.
There had been a single moment of mild amuse- ment, when the King's guards had brought Soren before him. The chief of the King's mages had been blubbering with fear, and not because of Naitachal!
No, he had been holding the ring he had taken at arms' length, terrified of it, and yet more afraid to put it down. When he had seen Naitachal, he had been incoherent with gratitude, and had pulled free of the grip of his captors to fall at Naitachal's feet.
"Please, please take this b-b-blasted ring back!" he had sobbed. "In the name of the gods, please! It' I've -- "
Naitachal never did learn what it was that the ring had done to Soren, but the man had practically been incontinent with fear of it. He had plucked it o Soren's nerveless fingers, while the man babbled grati- tude, and pledged to reveal anything Naitachal wanted revealed....
Now he turned the ring over and over in his hands.
His father's ring, the ring of a Necromancer.
Like me... like me...
How could he live with himself, now? More impor- tantly, how could he ever trust himself again? And if he could not trust himself, how could anyone trust him?
He stared into the ruby eyes of the skull; they seemed to wink at him with sardonic amusement. See, they seemed to say, your father was right, all along.
"Naitachal?"
The familiar voice broke into his despondent mus- ings, and he looked up. Alaire stood beside him, harp in hand, Naitachal's harp tucked under his arm.
"Master," the boy said, with grave formality, "would you come with me for a moment? I really need your help with something."
More mages cowering under their bunks, most Naitachal thought glumly -- but it was something to do, something constructive.
Not destructive.
He followed Alaire, listlessly, out of the Associ Hall and back down into the labyrinth below it. Odd, he thought, as wooden walls gave way to rock, and the air grew chill. I thought we'd rooted all the mages out of these tunnels. And there weren't that many down here to begin wit But Alaire led him deeper and deeper into the maze, until at last they came to a place where he had not yet been.
Alaire opened a door, and icy air rolled out to greet them. Something else rolled out to greet them -- a wave of power the likes of which he had never felt before. He stepped inside, and Naitachal followed, all his senses suddenly on the The room was lit only by the lantern outside the door -- and the dim, white glow of the hexagonal crys- tals that ringed the upper part of it. Row after row of them, ensconced in little niches. And below the crys- tals, row after row of -- coffins?
He realized at that moment where they were -- and what this was.
"The Prison of Souls," he whis These were the stolen souls of all the hapless vic- tims the Association had taken.
"Master," Alaire said softly, "we have all tried to break the spell holding these people prisoner. Everyone from Soren on down -- singly and all together. Carlotta was the only one who knew how to break it. I could free myself, because I knew myself, but I can't free them."
He moved so that he could look directly, and challengingly, into Naitachal's eyes. "You Master Bard," he said forthrightly. "You have all the power and experience that we don't. You will have to help me -- and them."
It was not a request -- it was a demand. And a rightful demand. He had already pledged this, in a sense; what Carlotta had done, he must take a certain responsibility for.
He opened himself to the power of the room, and sensed the pain of all the imprisoned souls there.
But instead of being excited by it, as any "good"
Necromancer would have bee -- as my father would have bee -- it brought tears, real tears to his eyes. All the despair -- all the lost hope! The tears he so seldom shed burned down his cheeks, and as Alaire told him quickly and concisely how the boy had freed himself, he listened, then reached eagerly for the harp he had thought he was not worthy to touch again.
Alaire put it into his hands, and he sat down on a stone bench, resting it against his chest like a lover.
And it felt right there; not heavy and unnatural, a Death Sword had felt, but warm and welcoming.
Yes. Yes.
He considered his options, reached for his -- and began a song combining both making -- restoring those held prisoner to what they had been -- and unmaking -- melting away the crystals that held them prisoner.
He lost himself in the song; this time the unmaking blended in a bittersweet harmony with the power of making. He sang until he grew hoarse, and his hands, exhausted, faltered on the strings.
But then a younger, stronger voice joined his Alaire's smaller harp took up the melody, supporting the notes of his instrument.
And together, at last, they broke the spell.
The icy crystals melted away, leaving only the bare walls.
He opened his eyes, and saw that while they had been singing here, the room had filled with people, men and women, of all ranks and classes. And as those people ran to the opening coffins, and began to help those who had been imprisoned within the boxes to their feet, he realized that these must be the friends and relatives of all those who had been brought to this terrible place.
They crowded the room, taking a moment to touch his hand in gratitude, to smile tremulously, or to drop a word of thanks. There was as much joy in this room now as there had been despai No. There is more!
The room warmed with it, until it seemed to be no longer a prison, but a pair of warm hands, cupping them all.
The joy filled him, and he closed his eyes again, opening himself to it, letting it wash away his sickness of heart.
Finally, they were alone again. But the joy was not gone; it remained with him still, filling the bleak place where his Necromantic power had lived and festered for so long.
"You see, Master?" Alaire said as he opened his eyes on the empty room. "You aren't what you were. You're more than the old Necromancer now " -- then the boy grinned, impudently -- "and I even think you're more than Naitachal the Bard, who was afraid to make use of half his power!"
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."