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!"