The Unseen Hand

Ch 29: The Great Hall of Thyra

Mir'kadi, Eighteenth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

The Great Hall of Thyra was silent save for the crackling of logs in the hearth and the muted howl of the blizzard beyond the timbered walls. Two wooly greathounds basked in the heat of the fire, muzzles resting upon their forelegs. Their dark eyes glittered as they regarded the somber giant who stood before the roaring flames wringing the cold from his fingers.

Gøran drew in a long breath and turned his gaze upward. The fireplace formed the base of a colossal sculpture of the Celestial Tree. The carved flames, draped by basalt roots, represented the forges of the underworld. The tree rose up along the wall with gnarled branches stretching out and upward to support hundreds of jade leaves that seemed to rustle in the wavering firelight. An arched niche in the center of the massive trunk housed a statue of Issatiel–the Anvaari whose mythical blood ran in the veins of every Bissatiel. Twice as tall as Gøran and carved from a single block of white marble, the majestic figure thrust his sword toward the heavens.  The divine icon presided over the hall like a vengeful, ruby-eyed god wreathed within a flight of addonels.

Gøran's lips moved in a silent prayer; a supplication to the progenitor of the Bissatiel bloodline on behalf of Tan'os Ensther's soul.

"Admiring our artwork, Captain?" came a voice from the shadows.

Gøran turned in the direction of the feminine voice. He pressed his hand to his heart and bowed. "I wish that my purpose were so trivial, Marchess Eva."

A woman with hair the color of rusted iron stepped into the light. She wore a white wolf pelt on her shoulders and an ivory gown embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls. Her sinuous body glimmered as she approached Gøran with the elegance befitting a queen. "We do not see you in our hall nearly as much as we'd like these days."

Gøran swept back his hair and straightened his shoulders. He could hardly believe the tremendous power that the petite Vendraedi woman held over him. Her mere proximity stole the air from his lungs and plucked his heartstrings. "My duty is with the fleet, my lady."

Eva's dress snaked over the flagstones as she circled him. Her fingertips trailed along his hip. "All these years and the air still grows heavy between us," she whispered. "Tell me why that is, Captain."

Gøran lowered his gaze and drank in the sight of her beauty. It had been five years since he'd last seen her, but time had not tempered her allure. Eva was as slim and sleek as when she had boarded his ship nearly two decades prior. Defiant of the cold that assaulted Thyra's shores, her caramel skin glowed with the promise of southern warmth. Eva's mouth, broader than what was considered comely, summoned the sweet sound of her laughter from the well of his memory. The woman's lips had been the catalyst for his disgrace, if not his outright damnation.

Gøran tore his eyes away from her lest desire preempt the mournful nature of his visit. He avoided her question with a platitude. "I am forever your humble servant, Marchess."

The warmth of Eva's voice was drowned out by the shrill whistling howls of the arctic wind. "The freeze comes early this season. When do you sail to Carr?"

Gøran gazed into the shadows where ancient tapestries depicting naval battles adorned the cold stone walls. "We sail as soon as possible, though the destination depends on your husband's will."

Eva took a few steps away from him and turned to face the flames. She held her delicate, long fingers to the fire to warm herself. "You have come for him, I presume?"

Gøran nodded. "Yes, Marchess, I bear urgent news."

At the far end of the cavernous room, a door creaked on its hinges. Rhiess Ensther's voice boomed across the hall, "Gøran, take care with my wife. You know very well of her ability to bewitch us mere mortals."