Nancy Berberick - Prisoner of Haven

The truth Haven hated was that Sir Radulf had not lost a knight or dragon in the storm. He had reinforced his strength until he’d doubled his force again. Knights manned the walls, rotating shifts and sleeping in the watchtowers so there was never a moment when the walls were unguarded. Dragons sailed the sky day and night. Radulf had indeed lost many of his foot soldiers, though. The river yielded up the bodies of dozens, along with the corpses of the unlucky folk who’d been caught unawares.

The one true tale was the one Sir Radulf could have no effect on. The great storm had savaged all of Ansalon with the same power and rage as the Cataclysm hundreds of years before. No nation had been spared. No one had gone unscathed. Out of that story, came the rumor Sir Radulf hated most, the one that said his occupation force was being recalled to Neraka.

In the sky, dragons wheeled. Usha turned away from the sight of them, come like vultures to feed. It had been a pretty hope and a sweet rumor, but Sir Radulf wasn’t leaving.

“Are you going to Old Keep today, Loren?”

He shrugged, and his eyes seemed suddenly shuttered. “Perhaps.”

If he were, he’d go when he was summoned, not before. A dragon would come for him. It was Sir Radulf’s way now. He wanted Haven to see that her nominal leader went and came at his command, taken and returned when he willed. It didn’t used to be that way before the storm. That was when Usha knew Sir Radulf was, if not afraid, then no longer willing to trust his captives. There was no pretense made now of sophisticated men making reasoned choices, no play at all about cooperation and negotiation, and never a word about how what is good for the occupation will be good for Haven.

“I want to go to the inn today.”

Loren took her hand and led her from the window. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Perhaps. I’m going though.”

He raised an eyebrow. She said nothing. She could not explain her reason. He’d been too long not knowing about Dezra-or Aline or Madoc for that matter-to begin explaining her concerns now.

“Usha, it isn’t safe yet.” He began to dress in quick, efficient motions. “And there’s no need.”

“Rowan said he’s been getting through the streets well enough. The route from here to the Ivy is fairly direct now.”

Loren shook his head. She knew he was going to say, again, that he would set up a studio here for her. He would tell her he’d send servants into town to get what she needed. He would do whatever she wanted, but he didn’t want her to go into Haven. Not now, with the city so unsettled.

Sir Radulf ordered the clean-up of Haven as though the city were his household and every man, woman, and child his servant. He wasted no time on hangings anymore. Disobedience of any order issued by his knights, no matter how slight the order or how light the resistance, resulted in death on the spot.

Usha sat on the edge of the bed and took a silver-plated brush from the nightstand. She polished it absently against the silk of her bed gown. In the four days since she had been to the inn, she’d had no word of Dezra. At night when she lay down beside Loren, memories of the last time she saw Dez and their bitter, parting words clutched at her throat hard enough to strangle.

Neither had she heard a word from Aline or even a whisper from Madoc. Usha could say nothing to Loren about this. Day and night, she held her worry close and tried to soothe it by reminding herself that though the broader streets were no longer dangerous, many of Haven’s streets were still impassible, and those that weren’t were filled with Sir Radulf’s work crews coming and going. She imagined that Aline was keeping to home. What could Rose Hall, so near the river, be like now? She imagined that Madoc was lying low. In dark hours, though, she imagined far worse.

“Loren-”

“Love,” he said, “listen.” She heard the first strain of tension in his voice, the first catch of an emotion she hadn’t heard even during the height of the terrible storm. Then he had been afraid. Everyone in the city had been. What she heard now had a darker edge of dread. “Usha, things are hard now, harder than they have been. I want you close. I want you safely here.”

“Loren, I have work to do. I have…” People to find. The need to know how her friends fared cut like knives. “I won’t take foolish chances, and when I leave, I’ll take Rowan and go safely.”

His eyes flared, suddenly in anger. “Leaving is a foolish chance, Usha.”

Usha stood, chin lifted, eyes coolly narrow.

From the doorway a soft voice said, “Father?” Tamara stood, a slim shadow in a lavender bed gown. “I heard horses in the courtyard.”

In the moment of her saying so, Usha heard them too, the clatter of iron-shod hoofs, the ring of bridles. Loren crossed to the window then turned away. “Sir Radulf’s men. Looking for my gardeners again, no doubt.”

The knight used them hard, working Loren’s servants as though they were slaves. Loren had more than once objected to this ill-treatment.

Weak though it was, the spreading light of day illuminated Tamara’s face. The skin under her eyes was marred by the shadows of sleeplessness. “Father, Radulf needs those people.”

A snap of anger charged the room, Loren’s eyes held storm. For Tamara’s sake, Usha held out a hand to still him, then saw him choose to soothe rather than to argue.

“Of course,” he said. “Things will be much better when we can get around again.”

Loren put his arm around his daughter and ushered her back across the hall. He didn’t return, and Usha had no illusion that the matter of her leaving was finished between them. As she finished dressing, however, she thought, neither should Loren have had the illusion that he’d convinced her to stay if it were her will to go.

To a silent breakfast table at which Usha sat alone, a servant brought two messages: Loren would not be at Steadfast all day, and Mistress Tamara would be abed with a headache. The woman’s small frown indicated that she thought it was a planned headache, the kind young women get when their men are not attendant. To that, Usha made no comment. The morning, only newly started, had been enough to provide headaches all around.

“Oh,” the servant said as plucked a folded sheet from her belt. “And a rider come with this for you.”

Usha took the note and waited until she was alone to read it. In Rusty’s tidy, accounting script she read that her old studio was ready for her, clean and dry and aired out.

We’ve heard sad news from Solace. Caramon Majere is dead. They say his heart burst, that the old man worked hard as anyone cleaning up the place after the storm. Me, I think it might have broken over all that’s been going on these days. He’ll be missed.

There was more, but Usha couldn’t read it, for her eyes were filling with tears. Caramon Majere had been the closet thing to a father she’d ever known-a good, kind man whose bluff manners never hid his noble soul.

Ah Dez! Did she know?

After a moment, Usha wiped her eyes and looked at the rest of the note. It was only one line.

And she’s back.

Usha’s heart thumped hard. Her hand shook with sudden relief. She read the note again, and only then realized how circumspect were the three words of the announcement. Though she never had before, Usha wondered now how much Rusty knew about Dezra’s comings and goings.

Usha’s relief that Dezra was back proved short lived. Dez had returned to the Ivy only long enough to leave sign of her presence before vanishing again. In Usha’s studio, a boot split at the sole, a sodden shirt, and a puddle of muddy water indicated that Dez had been there. Though the studio was, indeed, clean and ready to function, Usha’s bedchamber had not been more than aired out and swept, Dezra’s had fared worse, for the shutters had been splintered. A tree had fallen on the roof, and water still dripped continually down the wall beside the bed. The room was hardly useable.