Nancy Berberick - Prisoner of Haven

At the top of the stairs Loren stopped outside a vaulted chamber. In a city where wood was too wet to ignite and little kindling existed, where candles had been washed out of flooded houses and oil made useless, it seemed to Usha that all the light in the world had come into Old Keep. Every torch, every brazier, each lamp and rush light-and on the vast stone table banks of candles to illuminate a feast of food not seen in Haven since the great storm.

Dragons, carrying supplies for the garrison, had carried the means of illumination as well as food, and into this dazzle a slim figure came from the other corridor-Tamara dressed in blue and gold, her arms white, her midnight hair piled high on her head like a crown.

“Father!” Tamara cried, and she sounded as startled as she was pleased. She ran to Loren, her sapphire eyes glittering, her fair cheeks flushed. Usha’s heart contracted to see Loren sweep his daughter into his arms and hold her tightly.

“Tamara!” he rasped. “Are you all right?

Tamara laughed-a thin, crystalline sound. “I’m fine, father.” She turned to Usha. “Why have you come?”

“To be with your father. To learn what’s happened.”

Tamara went still, like a deer scenting danger. Then, carefully, she stepped out of Loren’s embrace. The look she gave Usha, cold and scornful, reminded her of hard glances of earlier days.

“I’m fine, thank you. As you can see. I’m here because I want to be.” She lowered her eyes, her lips curved in a smile, then she looked up at Loren. “Father, he has been all you would want him to be. Radulf has been a knight of honor.”

Usha saw Loren shudder, but his daughter didn’t seem to feel it as she took his hand and led them inside. “Come and sit. Radulf will be here in a moment.”

Like the lady of a fine house, Usha thought as Tamara took them into the solar and seated her father beside the head of the table. Usha seated herself beside him. Tamara’s own chair was opposite them. The chair at the head was empty and waiting for the master of the hall.

On the table lay a brace of hares, roasted and displayed on a silver platter. Beside them a burnished copper pot steamed, filling the room with the aroma of tender pork stewed with onions and carrots, parsley and sage. There were apples piled in bowls and boards of bread.

This was more food than Usha had seen in three weeks. It was more than she expected to see for weeks to come. In the houses of the wealthy and the hovels of the poor people ate what they could find. They hoped for ships to come upriver with supplies. They fished in the river, old men and young children, and they were sometimes lucky, catching enough to eat, sometimes enough to dry and hoard. They never found herb or vegetable or fruit to help the pale diet.

Sir Radulf, it seemed, had better supplies than Haven could hope for. The sight of the food, the smell of it, turned Usha’s stomach.

Tamara, well-fed and pale as a fever victim, cheeks splashed with hectic color, hands quick and trying to hide a small trembling, didn’t seem to be benefiting from the fine fare.

A shadow slipped across the floor, and a footstep sounded sharply on the stone.

“Loren,” said Sir Radulf, “it’s good of you to come.” He bowed to Usha. “And Mistress Usha. As ever, I am your servant.”

He said it coldly as he straightened the collar of his white shirt. His men went armored, but he did not. Sir Radulf dressed in finest linen. His breeches were of soft, dark leather, his boots glossed and well tended. He looked like a lord come to supper, a man with weighty matters on his mind.

Usha said nothing and neither did Loren.

“I’ve been detained by business,” said the knight. “I hope you haven’t minded the wait.”

“I am here,” Loren said. “I’ve come to take Tamara home.”

Tamara moved restlessly, her glance darting between her father and her betrothed. It rested on Sir Radulf. “I don’t want to leave. I… I’m staying until the wedding, father. We’ll be married in Old Keep.”

Loren’s neck flushed with anger. Usha, fearing what that anger could unleash, put her hand on his knee. The flush did not die, but whatever he would have said went unspoken.

The knight took his seat, shifting the chair to an angle that allowed him to touch Tamara’s hand. The gesture turned Usha’s stomach. She found she could hardly look at the man, and yet she dared not take her eyes from him.

Tamara curled her fingers around Sir Radulf’s. He leaned closer, his shirt sleeve brushing her arm. On the cuff of the shirt’s white sleeve, Usha saw a mark-a small dark stain, as though Sir Radulf had been careless with his wine.

The knight’s hand slipped from Tamara’s and slid lower, to her leg. She blushed, confused before her father. Her sapphire eyes darted to Usha as Sir Radulf stroked the thin blue fabric of her gown.

“Take your hand from her,” Usha said, her voice deceptively gentle. “It isn’t proper, sir. Not with a lady.”

The knight’s eyes flashed then stilled. He did not move his hand.

Loren rose. “Remove your hand.”

Sir Radulf stood, tall and whip thin, and once again Usha saw such anger in Loren that she feared. She touched his hand and glanced across the table, reminding him that his daughter stood within hand’s reach of Sir Radulf.

Loren understood her meaning, Usha recognized the stain on the knight’s shirt sleeve. It was not rich red wine. It was blood. There was more-a splash near the inside of the elbow, a rusty streak drying on the inside of his palm.

“Sit,” said Sir Radulf.

Loren sat, gesturing to Tamara to come to him. She hesitated and glanced at Sir Radulf, the pulse in her throat racing so hard that Usha could see it from across the table. As though the matter were one not worth his concern, Sir Radulf shrugged.

“You will be happy to hear,” he said as Tamara went to stand beside her father, “that I have learned a thing I’ve long been wanting to know.”

Usha’s heart beat hard as the knight turned over his palm, looked at the blood there with a feigned expression of surprise. Now Usha saw blood crusted beneath his nails.

“I’ve learned that there is, in fact, more than luck involved in the way people have been vanishing from Haven.”

A chill crept along Usha’s spine.

“Do either of you know the word, Qui’thonas? ”

Loren said, “Elvish, isn’t it?”

“Specifically, Qualinesti. It means, ‘the path away,’ or so I was told.”

Beneath the table, hidden by linen, Usha’s hands trembled.

“I’m inclined to believe it. The man who screamed it was past the point of pain where he could dissemble. They get a look in their eyes. You know when something has broken and truth leaks through.”

Beside Loren’s chair, Tamara shuddered.

“Radulf,” she whispered. “What… what have you done?”

The knight glanced at her, but with little interest, then turned away. “I haven’t learned all I want to know, but I will. For now, I have learned something interesting. Qui’thonas used to be active in getting elves out of Qualinesti. They were based in Haven.” He shrugged. “It used to drive them mad in Qualinost, knights watching elves slip away into the dark and the river, never finding them. I doubt they knew of an organized effort or had the wit to imagine it. It took them a while to tighten the borders, but they did, and left the problem neatly in place across the river for me to discover.

“ Qui’thonas is operated by a very enterprising person, someone who has reversed the course of the path and now ferries people out of Haven.” Sir Radulf’s eyes narrowed a little, as though he were considering something. “We know the head of Qui’thonas is a woman.”