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.