Someone evidently gave a signal then, for the boys’ choir at the head of the column suddenly began singing the processional. The line began to inch ahead: first the choir, then a bevy of altar boys with scrubbed faces and spotlessly clean white surplices over their crimson cassocks, all carrying tall candles in gleaming silver candle-sticks.

Behind them came a thurifer swinging pungent incense at the end of a long golden chain, followed by a deacon carrying the heavy gilded cross of the Archbishopric of Rhemuth. Following the cross came the archbishop himself, resplendent in vestments of white and gold, crozier in hand, jeweled miter adding several feet to his height, his face set and grim.

Kelson came next, walking under a golden canopy supported by four scarlet-liveried noblemen. He was flanked by Archbishop Loris and Bishop Arilan, both of them in vestments matching Corrigan’s, both wearing the miters of their offices. Four more bishops followed.

After the bishops came Duncan, in his honored place as King’s Confessor. He carried the Ring of Fire on a small tray of heavily engraved silver. Ring and tray cast brilliant reflections on the snowy lace surplice he wore over his cassock, flashed mirror brightness onto his face as he walked.

Morgan followed, carrying the sheathed Sword of State upright before him. And after him, a white-faced and solemn Prince Nigel, bearing the State Crown on its velvet cushion. Behind him, in ranks of two, came Jehana and Ewan, Duke Jared and Lord Kevin McLain, Lord Ian Howell, Lord Bran Coris, and a host of other high noblemen and -women who were being honored by their inclusion in the procession. Most, of course, had no idea of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface of this august occasion.

Kelson’s thoughts raced as the front of the procession approached the high altar inside the cathedral. He had put the quarrel with Archbishops Corrigan and Loris out of his mind as the least of his worries now, even though he realized that this would just give him more time to worry about the other thing. He had seen no sign of the terrible Charissa yet, but he had no doubt she would show up before the ceremony was over.

He knelt at his personal faldstool to the right of the altar, ostensibly to pray while the rest of the procession entered and took their places, but he realized it was useless at this point. He couldn’t concentrate on the prayers he should be saying, and he kept glancing to either side through the interlaced fingers covering his eyes.

Where was she?

He wondered briefly if he would have been this nervous even had there been no threat of the Shadowed One, examined his emotions on the subject, decided it would have been difficult to concentrate under the best of circumstances, and immediately felt a little less guilty. Once the ceremony actually started, he promised himself, he would do better.