A sense of presence inundated Voran, a barely-evident energy, something between sound and light. It was stronger than usual, fed by the tense expectation of the crowd, many of whom were openly weeping. This is like a funeral, he thought, not a supplication.
Voran and Sabíana took their place at the front, near the quivering aspens. Voran turned back to see two files of longhaired youths robed in black, carrying square banners with embroidered images of Dars, Sirin, and High Beings whose names had long ago faded into legend. Passing through the Temple, they cleared a path to the grove of aspens, then stood in two lines with their backs to the crowd on either side. The clerics followed, robed in deep burgundy, the color of recent sorrow. They chanted an ancient lament.
The melody haunted V
