This Sceptred Isle, Chapter 2: An Ominous Visitor
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Although it was still early, and the distant sun’s feeble rays had barely begun to pour over the osteal marble of the agora, a sea of bodies had already flooded the White Square. Bv’nei cradled his khaveh as he watched the thawing courtyard come to life.
Myrham sidled up to her father, holding a mug in one hand and suspiciously eyeing a blackened puck she held in the other.
“I see you went for the tagenites after all.”
“Bread knife was dirty,” she said defensively.
“If only someone had done the dishes last night…”
She rolled her eyes and took a hesitant bite.
“I didn’t know Atalantes even had this many people,” she said with her mouth still full, indicating the crowd.
Myrham dunked what was left of the burnt tagenite in her khaveh, and Bv’nei’s smile dissolved into a grimace.
It was Myrham’s turn to chuckle.
“Stop burning them, then you can complain.”
“That really is a lot of people, though.” Bv’nei muttered. “I wonder what–”
The little brass bell on the shop door rang. Bvnei’s eyes brightened.
Myrham hailed them with the shop’s standard greeting.
“Welcome to Eikonos, Images and Icons! Just let us know if you need any help!”
One customer followed another, and another, until they all started to blur together.
The pleasant scent of khaveh lingered in the air from the pot Bv’nei left on the hot plate in the back of the shop. The “magic” (to use a crude word for it; Bv’nei preferred the nuances of the Gnomec word “kroft”) it ran on was costly to leave on like that, but the khaveh lent a warmth and atmosphere to the shop that was all the more important in the early hours of the day when the sun was still distant.
The surging current of browsers and buyers kept the two busy for the better part of the morning. It wasn’t until midday that business finally slowed.
Even as the sun neared its zenith over the mainland, it remained distant enough that the columns and statues stationed around the White Square still cast long shadows over the bustling crowd. Bv’nei had lived in Atalantes for almost as long as Myrham had been alive, and he still hadn’t gotten used to the extremes that came with living this far from the mainland. It really was the edge of the world.
“Watch the shop for a second?” Bv’nei said, “I need to get started with dinner prep.”
“Sure,” Myrham said, before hesitating. “But what about the midday meal?”
He sometimes forgot the younger generations had started eating three meals instead of the traditional two. That would explain why business had started dipping at midday.
“If you ate enough at the morning and evening meals, you wouldn’t need a third meal.”
“I mean, I guess…” Myrham said, “But it’s better to space them out.”
“Dunno. Just what I heard.”
“And you believe everything you hear?” Bv’nei countered.
“Well, no, but… what’s the harm?”
Bv’nei had to give her that one. He nodded sagely in his best imitation of an Academec scholar hearing a legal case.
“Alright. As long as no one needs help, you can break for a midday meal.”
“Just keep an eye out for customers!” he added.
“Got it,” Myrham said, giving him a mock salute as she slid over the shop counter to get to the kitchen.
“And maybe wash the dishes while you’re back there!”
Myrham returned with a now-clean bread knife and the sphynx bread box tucked under her arm, and sat on the shop counter to eat while Bv’nei prepped for the evening meal.
“Nothing to report,” Myrham said when he came back, just as the bell rang again.
A man's silhouette appeared in the doorway, and a chill swept through Bv'nei's spine. White hair framed his face, haloed by the light of the distant midday sun behind him. His tall figure cast a long ominous shadow into the shop, masking his face in darkness and reaching its fingers over the rows of divine images.
Bv'nei started to give the usual greeting, but the words caught in his throat. Something about the way the man carried himself unsettled and unnerved him.
He didn't so much step into the shop as stalk into it. He kept one of his weathered hands tucked in the folds of his cloak just under his chest, the skin like the gnarled whorls of an oak tree. With frigid practiced poise, he took in the shop, his eyes casing and cataloging every inch of its interior almost conspiratorially with militant efficiency.
Seeing that the shop was empty save for Bv'nei and Myrham, the man stalked towards them with a gait between that of a jackal and a secretary bird, intense gaze locked on Bv’nei.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” the man said in a thick Atalec accent, “All the Reconstitution Period icons.”
Bv’nei swallowed and cleared his throat, finally finding his voice.
After the Atlasfall, a lot of people in Atalantes stopped worshipping the Old Gods. Last Atlas worship was even outlawed. During the period that followed, known as the Reconstitution, their place was largely overtaken by hero worship. Some Old World heroes like Herakles remained relevant, but the dawn of the new age also saw the emergence of contemporary heroes, most of them Helenec.
“They’re very popular,” Bv’nei said.
“Yes, yes,” the man said.
He dismissively waved the hand that wasn’t tucked in his coat.
“Very popular, very common,” he said. “You wouldn’t happen to have something from… an earlier period, would you?”
The ominous visitor stressed the last part, laden with unspoken meaning.
Suddenly very serious, Bv’nei nodded.
He pulled a coin purse from under the counter and turned to Myrham.
“Myr, can you get something for me?”
“Uhm, yeah, sure I guess? What do you need?”
Confusion was written on her face.
“Anything, really,” Bv’nei said. “Go out into the agora and get me a book.”
She hesitantly took the bag.
“Yep. A book. Any book. Make it something interesting.”
“Oh, um, okay,” she said, “Yeah sure.”
“Good! Great! See you in a few hours!”
Bv’nei rushed Myrham out the door with barely enough time to grab her satchel and her mother’s cloak before pushing her out into the White Square. He spared no time in locking the door behind her, and shuttering the shades.
With Myrham gone, once he was sure no one was in earshot, Bv’nei turned back to his Atalec guest, grave expression illuminated only by the low glow of the hot plate and the spare rays that snuck through the shades’ slats.
