L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“ … there! Looks like a consorting … ever I saw one ….”

“ … captain, all right, handsome as he is, but who be the lady?”

“That’s shimmercloth, and the cloak-that says there’s lancer and Magi’i blood in the union. Don’t see that often, not here.”

“Love match … I tell you … no other reason it’d be here.”

Lorn smiles and leans toward Ryalth. “It is a love match, you know?”

“I know. I’ve known that for years. It took you a while.”

He shrugs expansively, but the wide smile remains on his face.

The recording building lies on the west side of the small town square, around the corner and a good two hundred cubits from the side lane that holds Dustyn’s establishment.

More people watch from the porches around the square, a good half-score from the wide porch of the cooper’s, and half that from the weaver’s adjoining building.

“I’ve never seen so many people here,” Lorn says quietly.

“Dear …” Ryalth laughs. “They don’t get to see this often.”

“A consorting? It happens all the time.”

“There are many lancers, and few lancer officers,” she points out.

“You’re the one,” he counters. “There are but a handful of trading houses, and none so large headed by a woman.” Still, Ryalth’s words nag at him. Despite his mother’s words, he has never considered, not fully, how few lancer officers and Magi’i there truly are in Cyador. He pushes that thought away as he looks at the far side of the square.

Dustyn stands on the stone walkway to the right of the steps up to the yellow brick recording building. He wears a rich brown cloak, trimmed in blue, over brown trousers and a good blue tunic. Beside him is a silver-haired woman who smiles broadly as Lorn and Ryalth ride toward her. Alongside the factor and his consort stand an enumerator in blue-Eileyt, Lorn assumes-and a guard wearing merchanter blue.

Eileyt’s gray eyes take in Lorn. Lorn smiles politely. The slender enumerator bows, a bow of respect.

Ryalth dismounts gracefully, barely placing any weight on the hand that Lorn offers. The guard steps forward to take the reins of both mounts.

“Greetings, Captain, and my best wishes to you, LadyMerchanter.” Dustyn inclines his head first to Lorn and then to Ryalth. “This be my consort Wryul.” The spirit factor gestures to the silver-haired woman.

“Thank you.” Lorn nods, as does Ryalth.

“You look lovely,” Wryul addresses Ryalth. “And to come so far …”

“We would have had to wait years for Lorn to return to Cyad,” Ryalth explains. “I’m very happy to be here.”

As the couple turns toward the steps of the small building, a closed carriage of polished golden oak and drawn by a pair of matched grays approaches from the eastern end of the avenue and enters the square.

“That be Kylynzar, I do believe,” exclaims Dustyn as the coach draws to a halt and as a wiry white-haired man in a maroon cloak steps out. The white-haired man turns and offers his hand to a gray-haired woman in a matching maroon cloak.

“A quiet consorting?” Ryalth murmurs under her breath.

“I told no one except the ones I had to,” Lorn murmurs back.

“Then why is half the town here?”

“It’s not half ….” Lorn protests.

“It is if you look behind us around the square.” Ryalth touches his hand to call his attention to the two who have arrived in the coach.

“Captain, Lady,” offers the man in the maroon cloak, “with your decision to honor Jakaafra in your place of consorting, we could do no less than to honor you.” A wry smile follows the words. “We have not met. We have corresponded. I am Kylynzar, and this is my consort Mylora.”

Lorn and Ryalth incline their heads.

“We are pleased to meet you,” Lorn says.

“Not so pleased as are we.”

Dustyn clears his throat. “Ah … ser … lady. Wasyk be waiting for you.”

Ryalth lifts her eyebrows. Lorn finds an embarrassed grin on his face. They walk up the two stone steps to the open double doors of white oak, then step inside.

The recording hall is but fifteen cubits deep and half that in width. The floor is over-polished white marble. Four tall windows-two on each side-provide the illumination. The panes are glazed with ancient, blue-tinged glass. The hall is empty of all furnishings except for a single white sunstone pedestal.

A heavy-set figure stands behind the open book that rests on the stand of white sunstone. Each page of the book is a cubit in height and two thirds that in width. The man wears a sash-like white shimmercloth scarf wide enough almost to conceal his brown tunic, despite his bulk.

“I am Wasyk, the recorder of consortings. Approach … you who wish to record your consortship here in the town of Jakaafra.” The recorder inclines his head to the couple.

Lorn and Ryalth walk slowly toward the book and sashwearer.

Only Dustyn and Wryul and Kylynzar and Mylora have followed the couple into the building, and the four of them stand at the back, just inside the doors.

Lorn and Ryalth stand two cubits back from the sunstone pedestal and the book upon it. Both look to the recorder.

“Do you two-Captain Lorn of the Mirror Lancers and Lady Ryalth of Ryalor House-declare your intention to take each other as consorts?”

“I do,” Lorn replies.

“I do.” Ryalth’s words are as firm as Lorn’s, if more melodic.

“Would you each inscribe your name in the book before you, signifying that such is your choice of your own free will, in the prosperity of chaos and light and under the oversight of the Emperor of Light?” Wasyk extends a shimmering white pen.

Ryalth takes the cupridium-tipped pen and writes her name. She passes it to Lorn, who in turn, writes his name.

Wasyk takes the pen and replaces it in the ceremonial cupridium holder, then clears his throat before declaiming, “As entered in the book of Jakaafra, you are hereafter consorts.” Wasyk beams at the couple. “May you always befulfilled in the light and in the fullness of time.”

Lorn slips the shiny silver onto the pages of the book, as Dustyn had told him. He stands there for a long moment.

“You could kiss me,” Ryalth murmurs.

Lorn does.

He can hear a gentle sigh from the back of the small building.

“Such a lovely couple …”

Arm in arm, the newly consorted pair walks toward the door.

Kylynzar steps up, coughs gently, and speaks. “It be forward, we know, but Dustyn and Wryul and Mylora and me, we’d like you to come to the Brick Hearth. Our treat, if you would. It not be that often that a consorting such as yours happens in Jakaafra.”

How can they refuse?

“We would be more than happy to join you,” Ryalth says brightly. “Our families are far from here, and your hospitality is most welcome.”

“Most welcome,” Lorn adds.

“It has been three generations since a lancer officer has lived in Jakaafra, leastwise with his consort, if only part of the time,” says the gray-haired Mylora.

“We’ll be here when we can,” Lorn says, recalling his mother’s words just before he had left Cyad-her observation that lancer officers were almost as exalted and rare as the Magi’i outside of Cyad.

When they step inside the Brick Hearth Inn, propelled forward by Dustyn and Kylynzar, Lorn’s mouth drops open. The public room has been cleared, and a table set against the side wall. On the green linen of the table are platters heaped with slices of melons, wedges of cheeses, and baskets of bread. At the left end of the table are a score of bottles of amber wine.

Kylynzar and Dustyn both laugh.

“Little enough we can do,” Kylynzar says. “If you’d not mind, we did ask a few other folk to join us.”