Letters from exile.
Posted: Fri Feb 09, 2007 1:27 am
Fairhaven
2536, Fourth Cycle, Fallenor, Tria 15th
Dear Father,
It has been a while since my last letter. Winter is on our doorstep already, yet it seems like it was summer only yesterday. The air out here carries a hint of hot pies and warm spicy dandelion wine whenever I approach the market districts. Loud vendors try to hawk their wares, customers try to haggle on the prices of sturdy winter clothing and there's always some toddler bumping into you. An accident or on purpose, you'll only ever know five minutes later when you notice your pouch has gone missing. It is nothing like the true civilization in majestic YrkanisÂ… I miss home.
I am doing rather well. My job at the Lady Ambassador's office is boring me to death but at least it pays my rent. That's right Father, no longer do I need to reside near those smelly servant quarters, I have my own apartment in the well to do part of town. Thanks to the royal pay I have been able to acquire some of the finest imported botanical samples. Along with the Matis art collection of Uncle Luccia and a strong lock on my door, these will make me feel more at ease in this culturally challenged haven for petty thieves, conmen and vagabonds. Unfortunately I have had no luck so far in locating any of that prime dandelion wine you used to keep in the cellar, these people mostly seem to be interested in fermented fruity ales and root beers. Perhaps I haven't found the right contacts yet.
But let me continue about the job at the Lady Ambassador's office. It is not a line of work either of us would have expected me to end up in, but as an exile in a foreign land the jobs aren't for the picking. And as I have already said, it pays my rent. Three weeks ago I passed the tests set by the Royal Scribes' Office and got offered a position as assistant-scribe with the Embassy's Department of Culture and Customs. The past three weeks I have been studying documents and amber cubes based on my predecessor's observations and transcripts of orally passed down pieces of Tryker lore, stories and songs. I can't break away from the impression that these people seem childish. I can't even fathom how they can get an administration running nor have any sort of working government.
I miss Yrkanis, fifteen more years before I'll ever see the snow-covered treetops again. Fifteen more years before I'll see the white canvas of Majestic Garden again. I miss the house, our conversations, my sister's laughter. Even her hopeless suitors.
I pray to Jena daily, that she may forgive me and undo what has happened. But in her eyes I must not have repented enough.
Fifteen more years and I'll come home.
Take good care of Nicca, Father. Keep those suitors on their toes. I will write to you again soon.
May the grace of Jena be with the both of you.
Your son,
Sirrio