The Great Cathedral of Eldharûn was a marvel of architectural arrogance. Its vaulted ceilings were so high they seemed to vanish into a permanent, artificial gloom, and every inch of the white marble walls was encrusted with gold leaf that caught the flickering light of ten thousand tallow candles. To the citizens outside, it was a holy sanctuary; to Emery, as she took her first step down the long, central aisle, it was a slaughterhouse dressed in lace.
The weight of the bridal gown was agonizing. The silks, stiffened with embroidered wire and heavy with thousands of tiny seed pearls, dragged behind her like the tail of a wounded animal. Her veil, a gossamer shroud of silver thread, blurred the faces of the hundreds of nobles who lined the pews. They looked like ghosts—pale, expectant, and hungry for the spectacle of her submission.
