The great pipes of the cathedral organ shuddered to life, their low bass rolling through the foundation like subterranean thunder.
Fragrant incense billowed from high gilded censers, drifting in lazy clouds toward the ribbed vaults and mingling with the crisp autumn wasaft that slipped beneawiththe arches.
Four hundred nobles fell into an uneasy hush, their heads turning toward the central aisle as the solemn rhythm of the wedding march began to resonate against the ancient elven stone.
Preceded by four heralds bearing the silver-and-black banner onorthwesterne, the bridal procession stepped onto the aisle.
Laurence Bale walked with unyielding confidence.
Dressed in the formal mantle of an ascending provincial peer. Carcoal velvet trimmed in midnight fur, clasped at the throat with an obsidian brooch carved in the likeness of a roaring lion.
