Zarrova’s Boutique

January 22nd, 2015

To the hand of the Poet Laudate Audric op Vilar,

I have wondered if on a subconscious level I gave him the wrong key to delay the inevitable. Clearing out the shop, her private rooms, her garden, the cabinets and wardrobes… it was almost too much to bear. So many little tokens of her her stowed away in this or that. Letters in her hand. Clothing she once wore. Bottles of perfume she had neither labeled nor put upon her shelves, scents so infinitely familiar I could almost sense her in the room as I took inventory of the stock. She had meant to get around to them eventually, and now eventually will never come.

I miss her so. What am I to do without her? Her advice was always sound, always there, ready at a moment’s notice. Was it as misguided as I ought believe? I have not confided in you the contents of her letter and I cannot find the words to summarize them. I am so confused, Audric. I do not know what to do. I bury myself in mountains of paperwork and occupy my thoughts penning letters without meaning. Trivial matters of the financial and official. There is a part of me I fear has been sealed away, locked behind a door with that small, obsidian throne I used to dream of. The very same she set upon the bell tower when she left. She wrote that she was proud of me. That I had grown before her eyes from a girl who could barely endure the company of strangers to a leader, her Magnate, someone to be admired. I don’t feel worthy of admiration, and truth be told I never have. She was the only person to have ever suggested I was wrong. She wanted me to reconsider my beliefs and feelings. To think twice about the dogma that stood in the way of her living safe and well to an old age, simply because she was born into magery.

I have tried, Audric. I have knelt in the chapel until my knees are numb and head wrought with pain, trying to find some balance between her wisdom and the Lord’s. I cannot do it. The nearest I have come lie in the words of Saint Aelwyn, who once said that magic can be used to moral ends, to do good in this world, but at the cost of the mage’s soul. To think of her, my friend, my sister, forever trapped within a darkened void because she could not submit herself to the pyre spreads decay throughout my heart.

She died in the manner she lived–devoting herself to the needs of others without regret. I no longer pray for Alexander. I don’t pray for my father. I pray for Zeita, who destroyed herself–her very soul–for the good of Lithmore. She must have known what it would mean to die without the fire. To make such calculated sacrifice, knowing she would never meet the Spring and choosing to do it anyway, proves only that she was as I always knew: Divinely blessed by the spirit of ultimate perseverance and decency. I will mourn her for the rest of my days.

Gerolf is doing poorly. He was deep in his cups when I last called upon him at the Cathedral. If this crisis has crippled me I can only imagine what he must be going through. I cannot thank you enough for lending your hand to ensuring he was not removed from his office. After Zeita and the plague I do not think he could have endured another blow. There are rumors circulating that something terrible has happened to him, but it is not the first time. He has always come out alright, in the end. There are a great many Knights stationed outside his office to keep him safe, after all, and who better to entrust with our Cardinal’s life than they?

Should you call upon me at my home you may find it empty for a time. The Earl Marshall has commanded me to stay with the Knights Lithmorran at the Keep, though she has not explained why nor for how long. It is difficult to understand her meaning even at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. Either way I find it ill-advised to protest or demand a cause. Mechanical and resentful she may be, but she is not foolish. If she has determined I should stay there she will have had a good reason, and I would put my trust in her before I would most others.

I wondered if, when next circumstances permit, we could arrange a meeting to discuss induction of Ariel le Orban back into the Troubadours. It always seemed to bring him joy to play his viol and no one could deny his talent. I need not even boast on his part. It is well known that he is articulate, diplomatic, and gifted–all these things contribute to the wishful cut of your ideal bard. If you are still without a Poet Knight I would, respectfully, advise you to consider him. I do not know if he would accept, but it might bring him some sense of comfort to know that he is welcome.

Lord bless, Audric. I am thinking of you.