Nancy Berberick - Prisoner of Haven

Usha Majere breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the high granite wall surrounding Haven loom ahead. In the hour after sunrise, the granite shone with the new day’s rosy light.

A welcome beacon, Usha thought.

Around her, several of the eight travelers who’d been her companions for the trip from Solace lifted ragged cheers, and the group halted as if by unspoken accord. Usha shifted her seat in a saddle that had become harder and harder each mile of the journey. Others did the same, the two sons of Hann the miller, the baker and his wife who traveled to visit their daughter, an old soldier called Dog along for the pay, and Reetha, a pretty half-elf who thought she would find better work as a seamstress in Haven than in Solace. Rising in their saddles to get blood back into their legs and posteriors, stretching kinked muscles in arms and shoulders and necks, they looked like a more hopeful lot than they had in the last few days of the journey.

Usha turned at the sound of a bridle jingling behind her. Dezra, her husband’s sister, had a positively jaunty air about her, her high spirits infecting her red mare. Dezra controlled her head-tossing mount with a firm hand and a soft word, then cocked a wry grin when she saw Usha settling uncomfortably again in the saddle.

“You’re going to be about as limber as a two-by-four once you get down.”

“That would be a distinct improvement,” Usha murmured.

“Ah, we’re almost there,” Dezra said, pointing. “Our luck held, and not a dark knight the whole way.”

With the forest behind, the road meandered through a small orchard, and out from there to bisect the recently harvested fields of wheat and barley. Beyond those fields lay Haven. Usha looked back to the road and the shadowed forest lining either side, then forward to the walls of Haven. The road between Haven and Solace had become a dangerous one, and the tales of travelers waylaid by the occasional opportunistic robber now mingled with tales of folk harassed by dark knights.

Usha settled the saddle bags across the little palfrey’s withers. Her fingers lingered on the one containing her small store of carefully wrapped charcoals for sketching and the little sheaf of parchment leaves.

“Let’s go,” Dez said, her voice loud enough to carry to the folks at the back of the group.

Usha tugged up the hood of her jade green cloak, settling to let her thoughts drift to the sweeping shadows of clouds on the road. She had an artist’s eye for shape and shaping, and in the shadows she saw dreams and promise. In her mind’s eye she transformed the shapes into the first brush strokes of a painting as yet without form or theme or name.

Dezra did not have eyes for the patterns that shadows made. A sheathed sword hung near her knee, a dagger at her belt, and a skirt’s hem did not hamper her. She rode comfortably in breeches and leather shirt, the heels of her boots the proper height to make a stirrup safe. As she had every day of the journey, she kept a hand near her quiver of arrows and an eye on the way ahead.

Usha watched Dezra’s eyes glance now and then to the right or left, once or twice over her shoulder. She knew Dez didn’t worry too much about robbers. No band existed in Darken Wood these days that was large enough to give a party of their size any trouble. But Dezra and the others who bore weapons worried about dark knights prowling the roads or lurking in the glens and on the forest heights.

“Like they’re measuring the place and getting ready to move in,” Dezra’s father had grumbled when he stood on the breezy porch of the Inn of the Last Home and wished Usha and his daughter a safe journey. As Caramon spoke the porch and the inn itself had swayed gently in the arms of the great vallenwood tree that housed it. Beyond the inn the other houses of Solace, perched in their own trees, did the same, a town sighing in the summer morning. It was a motion that had taken Usha some time to learn to appreciate as soothing. Neither Dezra nor Usha discounted Caramon Majere’s opinion. Few knew the risks and hazards along way between Solace and Haven as well as this old warrior turned peaceable innkeeper. Caramon had lived in Solace most of his long life. It was true enough that, whatever the dark knights’ motive-and who could think it was a good one?-the minions of the dragon Beryl often crossed the racing White-rage River into free Abanasinia.

Usha looked up at fleecy white clouds wandering across a sky the color of a robin’s egg. She wanted to feel a slender brush in her right hand, the weight of her palette of pungent paint in her left. She wanted to change a white canvas into that breathing blue sky and wind-shepherded clouds.

“ Stop right there! ”

The cry cut through the early morning silence, sudden and loud. Usha’s heart leaped into her throat. The miller’s son reached for a sword, but Dezra stilled him with a sharp gesture.

“You want to get us all killed? And what in the name of dark gods are you going to do with that down here anyway?”

The boy’s face flushed in embarrassment or anger.

Quietly, Usha said, “Put your weapon up, Beren. We’re all right.” She nodded, just as though she believed it, and Beren sheathed the sword with a great show of reluctance.

In the shadow of the Haven wall, before the stoutly barred gates of the city, the little party reined in their horses. Usha glanced at Dezra. They were not kindred spirits, these two, nor kin except by Usha’s marriage to Dezra’s older brother, but neither failed to understand the other. Be still, said Dezra’s gesture, a motion of her hand barely seen in the darkness.

You needn’t worry about that, Usha affirmed with a slight inclination of her head.

Usha’s mount sidled. Behind her, the jangle of bridle iron clashed with the sound of her horse’s distress as the rest of the travelers contained their restive mounts. With a firm hand and soft whisper, she soothed her palfrey. Her hand steady on the reins, she looked up, trying to see who had called down to challenge.

“Oh, Dez, he’s a boy.”

Dezra crooked a grin and lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the glare of the sun.

“Who’s that?” she called. “Rinn Gallan, is that you shouting loud enough to wake the dead?”

Silence, like the pause between drum-beats, and the guard called down: “Dez? Dezra Majere, is that you?”

Usha let go a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

“Yes, and is that such a surprise?” Dezra snorted. “Don’t I always come down to Haven this time of year to get your uncle’s hops before anyone else can? What would my father’s ale be if we made it with any but good Haven hops? Nothing worth talking about. Now, open the gates and let us in, Rinn.”

The boy vanished from sight. Usha exchanged a relieved smile with Dezra as they heard his voice from behind the walls. “Open!” he shouted. “Open to friends!”

Someone cursed the weight of the great oaken beams that made the bars and shouted to others to “get over here and put yer backs into it!”

Usha lifted her face hoping to catch a breeze off the river, but the morning air was still. She was hungry, and she longed for a bath to soothe the aches of the journey.

The trip from Solace to Haven had seemed like a good idea last week. “Come with me,” Dez had said. “Haven is a fine place to be this time of year. Kern the baker and his wife are going down, the miller’s boys too, going to fetch two new wagons for their father. For the company of me and my sword, they’ll carry back what I buy for the inn. And I don’t think we’ll have any trouble convincing old Dog to take his sword down from the wall and come along for a chance to tour the wine shops and taverns. We’ll go get the inn’s supplies for this year, a fine little party of convenience-and have some fun.”