‘Fine.’ Her eyes grew flinty. ‘No attendants, no wedding – and if there isn’t a wedding, my ring stays right where it is.’

‘That is an impossible young woman, Sparhawk,’ the Archprelate fumed as he stormed out of the room where Ehlana was making her preparations.

‘We prefer the term “spirited”, Sarathi,’ Sparhawk said mildly. Sparhawk was dressed in black velvet trimmed with silver. Ehlana had summarily rejected the idea of his being married in his armour. ‘I don’t want a blacksmith in our bed-chamber to help you get undressed, love,’ she had told him. ‘If you need help, I’ll provide it – but I don’t want to break all my fingernails in the process.’

There were noblemen by the score in the armies of western Eosia, and legions of clergy in the Basilica, and so that evening the vast, candlelit nave was almost as packed as it had been on the day of the funeral of the revered Cluvonus. The choir sang joyful anthems as the wedding guests filed in, and incense by the bale perfumed the air.

Sparhawk waited nervously in the vestry with those who were to attend him. His friends were all there, of course – Kalten, Tynian, Bevier, Ulath and the Domi, as well as Kurik, Berit and the Preceptors of the four orders. Ehlana’s attendants, appropriately, were, in addition to Sephrenia and Mirtai, the kings of western Eosia and, oddly enough, Platime, Stragen and Talen. The queen had given no reason for these selections. It was altogether possible that there were no reasons.

‘Don’t do that, Sparhawk,’ Kurik told his lord.

‘Do what?’

‘Don’t keep pulling at the neck of your doublet like that. You’ll rip it.’

‘The tailor cut it too tight. It feels like a noose.’

Kurik did not answer that. He did, however, give Sparhawk an amused look.

The door opened, and Emban thrust his sweating face into the room. He was grinning broadly. ‘Are we just about ready?’ he asked.

‘Let’s get on with it,’ Sparhawk said abruptly.

‘Our bridegroom grows impatient, I see,’ Emban said. ‘Ah, to be young again. The choir’s going to sing the traditional wedding hymn,’ he told them. ‘I’m sure that some of you are familiar with it. When they get to the final chord, I’ll open the door, and then you gentlemen can escort our sacrificial lamb here to the altar. Please don’t let him run away. That always disrupts the ceremony so much.’ He chuckled wickedly and closed the door again.

‘That’s a very nasty little man,’ Sparhawk grated.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Kalten said. ‘I sort of like him.’

The wedding hymn was one of the oldest pieces of sacred music in the Elene faith. It was a song filled with joy. Brides traditionally paid very close attention to it. Grooms, on the other hand, usually scarcely heard it.