"My lords," Owain began, and his voice filled the nave like a blade sliding from its sheath. "My ladies. Faithful servants of the Light."
He let each word land separately, giving the assembled court time to settle into the cadence of his voice the way a congregation settled into a hymn. Speaking from a pulpit was not so different from addressing soldiers before a battle. The trick was to make every person in the room believe that you were speaking directly to them, and to them alone.
"We have gathered here today to honor a man who gave everything he had to the march he loved," Owain said, resting his hands on the cool marble of the pulpit. "A man who bore the weight of a duty he was born to carry, and who carried it without complaint for more than thirty years."
