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.”
“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 ….
CII
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.