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hrjAmiz Waldimen had been one of Margerit's first friends in Rotenek--a companion in her studies, though Amiz had treated the classes as a mere pastime. Now their lives had gone in such different directions: Margerit had been appointed as royal thaumaturgist and Amiz...Amiz was to be married. It was Maisetra Waldimen, her mother, who had urged her to ask Margerit to oversee the betrothal mystery. Such a coup! But it was for Amiz's sake that Margerit said yes and threw herself into the planning.
* * *
Something far simpler would have filled the need, but Margerit took her sketchbook to the church to lay out a true mystery, noting the dedications of the side altars and questioning the sexton on the history of the building and its key features. She built the structure in her mind and jotted it down in rough notes, speaking aloud the key phrases that would call the attention of the saints and lay out the intent of the ceremony so that she could see how the fluctus would respond. Amiz would stand there and her mother there. Her fiancé and whoever he brought would be there by the triptych of the crucifixion. The guild had their own favored prayers and structures for the markein and missio and she made no changes there. But the heart of the petition was tailored to what she knew of Amiz’s hopes and expectations for the marriage. Yet it was hard to stay within those lines and not weave in a thread of her own hopes for her friend.
At last she came out of her reverie and felt the cold of the stones beneath her feet and the unexpectedly close presence of Marken beside her. She came suddenly alert and turned to her armin, a question on her lips. With the barest nod of his head, he directed her attention toward the back of the church where a man leaned with artful casualness against a pillar. For a moment she thought she must be mistaken, misled by a trick of the light. “Mesner Kreiser? What are you doing here?” She chided herself for her bluntness. She never could learn diplomacy.
* * *
Something far simpler would have filled the need, but Margerit took her sketchbook to the church to lay out a true mystery, noting the dedications of the side altars and questioning the sexton on the history of the building and its key features. She built the structure in her mind and jotted it down in rough notes, speaking aloud the key phrases that would call the attention of the saints and lay out the intent of the ceremony so that she could see how the fluctus would respond. Amiz would stand there and her mother there. Her fiancé and whoever he brought would be there by the triptych of the crucifixion. The guild had their own favored prayers and structures for the markein and missio and she made no changes there. But the heart of the petition was tailored to what she knew of Amiz’s hopes and expectations for the marriage. Yet it was hard to stay within those lines and not weave in a thread of her own hopes for her friend.
At last she came out of her reverie and felt the cold of the stones beneath her feet and the unexpectedly close presence of Marken beside her. She came suddenly alert and turned to her armin, a question on her lips. With the barest nod of his head, he directed her attention toward the back of the church where a man leaned with artful casualness against a pillar. For a moment she thought she must be mistaken, misled by a trick of the light. “Mesner Kreiser? What are you doing here?” She chided herself for her bluntness. She never could learn diplomacy.
