Chương 43: Chapter 39 ~ Mister Postman (Part 2)

Thyres and Gysel came to a stop outside of the post office: it was a wide, single-story, red-brick building, with the entrance on the far right side that consisted of a single, white wooden door with a brass handle, set betwixt two tall, thin windows (these were the only windows).

The sign above the door was wooden and in the shape of an envelope; Vysrlaim (or Vygsrylamaimæ if one wished to avoid the ire of Professor Ihvilakh), the messenger deity—how one could have a deity from something that is ultimately a technology seemed like a bad idea, but if what Visi said was true, there were certainly stranger deities, the name 'I, the Divine Deliverer' sounds like the name of an executioner's axe, not a God who brings one a birthday card—was imprinted on the sign in a golden illustration: he was moving forward at not quite a run with a sack of letters on his back, and a parcel in his hand, with his long hair flowing behind him.

Thyres opened the door for Gysel; she thanked him and entered first.

The post-office, smelling strongly of glue, had plastered, off-white walls, and had been split into two separate sections, only discernible by the coloring of the floor tiles: the reddish tiles that extended out from the door, all the way to the back wall, were for the section with brass post office boxes covering the walls; and the grey tiles came out to the left of the red tiles (starting at the door-frame), and represented the section with the staff counter and collectable coins.

There was a line of about fifteen people standing upon the grey tiles, waiting to talk to the clerks. Thyres took this as an opportunity to keep talking about knights, but there was not a complaint to be had on this, for it was better than the rustling of papers and jingling of coins.

"Do you ever think about whether these old fables and tales are actually true? The Spiritual Magick professor seems to think they all are."

"I do not know," Gysel said with a shrug—the herons on his armor are certainly real, they are said to be all over the lakes by the capital, and the man given the prerogative of King, owns them all, and harming even a single feather gets one, rightfully, drawn—.

"I like to think they were real; we have Ulygewyian's sword, Syruttsyn, or Syrlinoinmiwaestuttdhotsyn."

"We do?" asked Gysel—why do people do things like this? that is a sentence, not a compound word, Freed Only Upon Foes Worthy, at least it was a fitting name for the sword—.

"Uh-huh. It's on display in the capital, I've been saving up to see it since I was little."

"So you have not seen it?" Gysel stepped forward in line as the mailman at the counter slowly worked through the line.

"Only the illustrations." Thyres paused, before appending the thought quickly.

"Of the actual sword, not the ones from the book."

"Does it look the same?"

"More or less. We don't know what the blade itself actually looks like, I certainly don't, at least. But the crossguard is shaped like the heads of two herons with sapphires for eyes, the grip and scabbard are covered in black leather, but the scabbard has a feather design pressed into it, and the pommel is made of a really nice piece of maple burl. It is one of the three highest-ranking swords in the ranking system."

By the time Thyres had finished describing Syruttsyn, the line had cleared, and it was now his turn.

"You can go first, Gysel." Thyres stepped aside and motioned to the counter.

"Thank you," Gysel said, as she stepped to the counter, directing her attention to the mailman. He was a shorter, rounder man, who was dressed in the same uniform all those employed by the nationalized mail service throughout the empire wore: a white button up shirt, tucked into smoky grey pants, with a red and white striped tie, held down by a black iron clip.

The mailmen who delivered the letters tended to also were a hat; judging by this man's lack of a hat (among other elements of his person), he only worked in the post office proper. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Do you have any letters for a Gysel Neekhilst? N-E-E-K-H-I-L-S-T?" she asked.

"Let me check." He disappeared into the back, and returned momentarily with a single letter. Gysel took the letter; it felt thick enough that Father might have included the letter from 'the Bird Journal.'

"Thank you." She began to step away.

"Not yet, it said that the post was to be paid by the recipient." The mailman held out his hand.

"One full copper." Wordlessly (as all grievances were with Father, not the mailman)—if Mother and Father ever move, Father is certainly going to pull the copper plumbing out of the walls—she produced the coin from her pocket and handed it to him. He smiled.

"Next." Gysel stepped aside and let Thyres take her place; he handed the letter and a few copper coins to the mailman.

"Same place as always." The mailman nodded, disappearing into the back, and Thyres and Gysel left.

"What is this ranking system?" Gysel asked, as Thyres closed the door behind her.

"It's a tiered system to rank the quality of weapons, usually just swords and daggers, but there is the odd axe and hammer thrown in there. All master blacksmiths gather in the capital to have their works judged and hopefully placed among the ranks. It is said that there will only ever be seven in the highest rank, and once all seven are brought together by people worthy of wielding them, the era will end."

"How many swords are there?"

"Only three so far," Thyres said.

"But the prophecies predict seven. It's been a few thousand years, and we have only seen three."

"Whose system is it?" It did not make sense that there was just a ranking system with a prophecy; someone had to have made it.

"It was originally made by Ehntsit," Thyres paused, as a gust of wind blew through, powerful enough to shake the sign of the bakery above them. Gysel nodded; Ehntsit was the deity associated with War and all that came with it: the weapons, the conquest, the violence, the spoils, so Him making a ranking system for weapons, made sense. A man emerged from a shaded alley no more than ten meters ahead of Thyres and Gysel; it was the first alley they passed and the only one in sight.

He was tall (tall enough to be nearly a head taller than Ardhy), and well-dressed in navy-blue trousers, a matching vest buttoned tightly overtop a cream shirt (an older military uniform, the kind that shows up at donation stores because no one in the family recalls who it belonged to) with a navy-blue overcoat draped over his arm, and a sword sheathed at his waist.

His black hair was just starting to grey and was styled like the plumage on the head of a wood duck, slicked back with a large poof at the front, and thick, tightly cut sideburns that only accentuated his long, rectangular face, and prominent jaw. Slowly, languidly, he walked, seemingly taking the time to think about where he would place the silvertip of his ebon cane upon the brick sidewalk: it always found its mark with a click. He smiled to both Thyres and Gysel as he passed; Gysel smiled back, just a small one.

Gysel looked into the alley as they walked by: it was a shallow alley, only about five meters deep, with no doors or windows leading into or out of it, and inside it there was nothing to do but kick the wide selections of two grey rocks. So she turned around to look back at the man, only for him to be nowhere in sight; glancing to Thyres, she found him looking back as well. Thyres resumed speaking, his voice was quieter, meeker: "And He still g-grades and approves everything."

The two walked back to the Academy in relative silence; the discussion on the knights of old and their swords had faded, and Thyres became quite taciturn, despite Gysel's attempts to reignite the topic.

"It was good talking to you, Gysel," Thyres said when the two got to the board.

"We never get to speak when we see each other with the others."

"No, we do not. It was nice talking to you too."

"Have a good afternoon," he said, starting to turn.

"You too." He waved over his shoulder; Gysel waved back. With a sigh, Gysel started back for her room, but stopped; what if the bookstore had a copy of Ulygewyian, any version, by any poet or author: it would be worth checking. So off Gysel went, taking a left up the stairs, and heading to the bookstore. They did have Ulygewyian: it was illustrated, and free, too.

Upon returning to her room, Gysel set the copy of Ulygewyian before Kawvel (it would make for excellent reading just before bed) and took a seat at her desk. She opened the envelope; inside there was a letter, and another envelope. She removed the letter first; it read: Glad you arrived safely and have made friends. Just remember if this does not work out, you do have other, better-paying options. Your Father This response was exactly as expected, such that there was no real reason to read it.

The second envelope had been shoddily stuffed inside the first, leaving the sides crinkled; she ripped the first envelope to get the second one out, and then opened it. It was the notice of delivery for this maiden's edition of 'the Bird Journal,' each notice includes how to change the location of where the edition is to be mailed at the bottom: this would be done to-morrow.