L. Modesitt - Magi'i of Cyador

“Of course.” Lorn hopes his voice does not betray too much surprise.

Kylynzar gestures, and within moments near-on a score of others have flocked into the public room, all dressed in their best. Lorn recognizes only one couple-the ostler from the compound-Suforis-and his consort Lesyna. Both wear cloaks of brownish red. Suforis smiles broadly as his eyes meet Lorn’s.

To the right of Suforis is Eileyt, and he smiles as well.

“Quiet consorting?” Ryalth murmurs.

“I had no idea ….” He whispers back.

“I can tell. You look like a stunned bullock.”

“One moment!” bellows Dustyn. “Kylynzar’s better with words’n me, and he’s got a few.”

The hubbub dies away.

“Just a few,” announces the grower. “Most of you know I never was too fond of lancer officers, and outside of Dustyn, not passing fond of factors, either. These two are different, and I wanted to let them know that the real folk of Cyador are most glad of it. Now, let’em have a first bite, and then join in.”

Still flushing, Lorn edges toward the table.

Dustyn extends two mugs in which he has poured the ruddy yet amber vintage. “You haven’t tried the like of this.”

Lorn grins and accepts the mug, as does Ryalth.

Lorn tries a wedge of the white cheese, and sips some of the amber wine as he steps back from the table and turns to his redhead. “This is different, sweet and dry at the same time.”

She takes one sip, then a second. “It’s strong.”

Kylynzar approaches. “That’s my amber melon ice wine.” He glances at Ryalth. “Perhaps you might … Later, of course.” The wiry grower flushes. “I did not mean to talk of trade.”

Ryalth laughs gently. “It is good, and we will talk later.”

“You are gracious, and you have dealt fairly, yet firmly.” Kylynzar shakes his head. “I will talk no more of trade.” Hebows slightly to Lorn. “We have not seen exactly eye-to-eye, Captain, yet you have lived up to your duty. And my cousin, he has told me that you always face the wild creatures first, and not last like so many officers.” He laughs, “And your consort has done far better by us than all the other factors of Cyador combined. In fact, much of our decision to be here and offer hospitality arises from her, and it is a pleasure to see that she is as beautiful and charming as she is an effective merchanter.” The grower inclines his head to Ryalth again.

“She is beautiful and charming, and very effective,” Lorn agrees.

Eileyt slips through the crowd and bows. “Captain, my best wishes to you.”

“Thank you. My gratitude to you for all the assistance you have provided to Ryalth and Ryalor House.”

Before either can say another word, a heavy-set man in a brown tunic so dark it is almost black steps up. Lorn recognizes Wasyk without his shimmercloth scarf.

“Never seen such a handsome couple,” says the recorder. “Really created a dither here. Hasn’t been a lancer consorting or a merage consorting here in more than a score of years.”

“We didn’t know,” Lorn admits, keeping his eyes on the big man, even as he wonders how long the not-quiteimpromptu festivities will continue.

“You both from Cyad?”

“I grew up in Fyrad mostly,” Ryalth explains, “until I was older.”

“I was raised in Cyad,” Lorn acknowledges.

“Won’t talk long, but wanted to tell you both that folk’ll remember this day.” Wasyk raises his mug.

Lorn takes but a tiny sip, knowing he will have many sips yet to come.

After taking a sip of her wine, Ryalth reaches out and squeezes Lorn’s hand, warmly. “We’ll remember it a long time, a very long time.”

Lorn has no doubts about that. And he’d thought it would be a quiet consorting ….

LORN STRETCHES GINGERLY, yawning, his arm still around the redhead sleeping beside him. The mid-morning light seeps through the closed shutters of the dwelling’s bedchamber, thin slivers of light angling toward the floor. The air is chill, because they had gone to bed early the night before and not stoked up the ceramic stove in the main room.

Smiling reflectively, and looking at the peaceful and lightly freckled face of his consort, Lorn still finds it hard to believe that the festivities of their consorting two days earlier had lasted most of the day and into the evening. He and Ryalth had finally slipped away near sunset, to more than a few knowing looks. The day after the ceremony they had spent quietly-the first day Lorn can remember in years where he or Ryalth had not had to rise early for some reason or another.

“Mmmmm.” Ryalth nuzzles up to his cheek and kisses him gently.

“Mmmm to you, too, sleepy-head.”

She yawns quietly, then snuggles against him. “You don’t know how good it feels to sleep in the morning.”

“I was just thinking that.”

“But you woke up ….”

“It is mid-morning,” Lorn points out.

“It’s still cold.” She shivers and pulls the worn quilt up to her ears-one-handed.

“I’ll start the fire in the stove.”

“Mmmmm … if you don’t mind … too much?”

He grins at the mock-plaintive note in her voice. “I’ll start it and then come back until it’s warmer.”

The stone floor-the part not covered by the few braided rugs-is indeed cold to Lorn’s bare feet. He pads into the main chamber where he sorts out some of the thin strips of wood in the starter basket, and then piles some of the largerpieces above it in the firebox. Then he concentrates.

Hst! The tiny chaos bolt is sufficient to create a small blaze within the stove.

Lorn smiles and walks back to the bedchamber, where he slips under the covers again.

“Your feet are cold. ”

“I did get the fire started in the stove.”

“Good.” Ryalth kisses his cheek, then pauses, before asking, “Have you ridden around Jakaafra much?”

“Except for the ward-wall? No. When you’re on duty most of the time … well … the only riding I really did was to Jakaafra to deal with Dustyn and to arrange for the consorting and dwelling.”

“You should. Now that you’re consorted, you can wear that uniform when you ride with me.”

“I hadn’t thought of wearing anything else.”

“You hadn’t thought of wearing anything at all today, you lecherous consort,” Ryalth teases.

Lorn flushes. “We’ve never had days like this together before, and they won’t last that long.”

“I know.” She sighs softly and hugs him, then kisses his cheek again. “I hoped for this for a long time. I didn’t think it was possible.”

“Lancers consort with merchanters.”

“But Magi’i don’t, and you were a student magus.”

“I still would have.”

“The way you are now, you would,” she admits.

“I don’t think I could have been otherwise.” His arms encircle her, and they kiss, a long and lingering kiss.

They both stiffen as they sense the chill of a chaos glass screeing them, and they hold to each other, barely breathing, until the scrutiny ends, and the chill fades away.

“Whoever … has no decency.” Ryalth snorts, leaning back just slightly.

Lorn wonders if his small use of chaos drew Maran, for it could be no other, or if the majer is merely curious about Lorn’s furlough.

“I didn’t feel that yesterday or at the consort signing … did you?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then he must think you’ve enticed your mistress to Jakaafra. I hope he gets very jealous. Very jealous.”

“He might be.”

“It’s getting warmer,” she says. “What did you do? Stoves don’t heat up that quickly.”

“A trick I learned as a student,” Lorn admits.