The Unseen Hand

Ch 31: The Journey South

Daimodi, First of Triesse, 445 A'A'diel

Flames licked dangerously high inside the wood-burning stove in Gøran's cabin, yet the chill pressed on. It stiffened the fingers and twisted the faces of the sailors into static grimaces. Since their departure eight days prior, a steady rain had pelted the fleet, covering every surface with a treacherous layer of ice. The Swoughünd's crew labored over the creaking planks of the decks, fighting the encroaching ice with axes and clubs.

Gøran gazed at his men through the clouded panes of his cabin window. "Look at them," he said, his breath misting. "Their eyes look neither up nor down, but straight ahead, locked on some distant destination. Even the anchor-faced ones move as if death has claimed them."

"My stomach is not fond of the sea, and neither am I, for that matter," came a voice from behind him.

Turning away from the window, Gøran appraised his guest. Eva sat on one end of his stateroom table huddled under a woolen shawl. Her slender fingers pulled at the cloth, drawing it tight around her shoulders. Winter on the Valga Sea was harsh. There was no comfort to be found on the Swoughünd, only suffering.

"Shall I warm some ale?" asked Gøran.

"I prefer ghavha if you have some," replied Eva.

Gøran ambled towards the pot belly stove. He flexed his fingers and grimaced. His swollen, aching joints were a constant reminder of forty years spent at sea. He rummaged through the cupboard until he found a tin of ghavha leaves. He crushed a handful of the leaves into a strainer and set a tea kettle on the hot plate. "I don't know how you southerners stomach ghavha. Vira drinks it morning, noon, and night. Says she can't live without it. Every time I drink it, I feel like crawling out of my skin."

"I've been living in Thyra for over fifteen years, and I have yet to figure out how you Northerners stomach tzuica. The smell of that plum slag is enough to sour my stomach."

"Tzuica may not be the greatest culinary achievement, but it's inexpensive, and it puts the heat back into men's bones."

Eva brushed back a strand of her hair. "I think Thromm's only culinary achievement is salting."

Gøran grabbed a mug and wiped it clean with a cloth. "Oh, I don't know. We are also specialists in smoking just about everything. Goat, bear, boar, seal. lots of fish. Plus mushrooms, mountain sage, tarbark, the list is endless. And don't forget the bread. We excel at making bread."

"Experts at kneading the dough, perhaps." Eva's face betrayed the hint of a smile. "You haven't tasted good bread until you've had a freshly baked sweet bun from The Crusty Loaf. There is none better, I assure you."

"Sweet buns she says!" Gøran chuckled softly. He placed the strainer on one of the mugs and waited for the water to boil. "Bissatiel lads need bread as hard and as dark as the winter to make them strong, not buns made with that teeth-rotting powder you crave so much."

Eva raised an eyebrow. "You have me there. I can't but concede that Thrommish bread is as lousy as the climate."

When the tea kettle wheezed, Gøran filled the cup to the brim and brought it to the table. "Lousy indeed. This storm is stubborn, but she'll break."

Eva curled her long fingers around the steaming cup. Despite the cold, her eyes radiated warmth. "They all break, don't they, Gøran?"

"Most do." Gøran fetched a mug for himself and took a seat next to Eva. Reaching down, he grabbed a ceramic decanter at his feet and uncorked it. "I always did have a soft spot for that mote in your eye," Gøran said, pouring himself a shot.