air, or talking to people he met on the street—as if carters and cobblers and cooks ought to have the First Prester expound the Scriptures to them!—he spent much of his time at the seminary, encouraging the students and the scribes who were copying the holy books. Sometimes he lent a hand in the work. It was not the way any First Prester had ever behaved, and that was, in Merffin Mord’s opinion, because his mind had come unhinged. When all was said and done, Merffin thought, Lord Orth was no more than a puppet for Prester Jod in Durmurot. All the same, Merffin thought he could make use of him.
“A coronation?” Orth mused, when Merffin had him as a guest for a private luncheon at his house. “But how could we ever hold a proper coronation? The Crown of Kai, of Obann, has been lost for centuries; even King Ozias couldn’t find it. Nor has anyone mixed the anointing oil since long before Ozias’ time.”
“We have goldsmiths and jewelers in this city who can make a new crown every bit as royal as the old one,” Merffin said. “And isn’t the recipe for the oil given in the Scriptures? I’m sure it is.”
“Only for the oil used to anoint the High Prester, in the age before the kings,” said Orth. “For that we know the ingredients, but in what proportions is not recorded.”
“Don’t you want the king to have a coronation?”
“Ryons is already king by God’s election. He rode the great beast and delivered the city out of certain destruction. There is nothing we can add to that.”
“But would you be averse, as First Prester, to anointing the king with oil and placing the crown upon his head?”
Orth sat and thought. Merffin had hoped to impress him by serving him the daintiest of dishes for his meal, and yet the First Prester had eaten them like biscuits—Orth, who once was famous as the greatest gourmet in Obann. Whatever had happened to him during his absence from the city, Merffin thought, only a shell of a man remained. “But if all turns out well,” he thought, “we’ll soon have a new First Prester, too.”
What was Orth thinking about? You couldn’t read anything from his expression. Maybe his wits were wandering, and he wasn’t thinking at all. He hadn’t even touched his wine, one of Aggo’s choice vintages. Merffin half-expected him to fall asleep. But just before he lost his patience altogether, Orth finally spoke again.
“No,” he said, as if he considered the matter to be among the world’s least consequential things, “I would not be averse to it.”
“Good! Splendid! We’re agreed!” Merffin said, as heartily as he could, successfully masking his exasperation. “Leave the fashioning of the crown to me and the composition of the oil to some of those experts at the seminary. All will be taken care of as it should be.”
“By the grace of God, amen,” said Orth.
CHAPTER 14
How the Zeph Were Quelled
Martis knew the way to Silvertown, but he didn’t just walk up to the gate. Instead, he circled around, climbed a thickly wooded hill overlooking the city, and tried to assess the situation down below. Wytt chattered in his ear, but he couldn’t understand. But soon he saw for himself what Wytt was trying to tell him.
Down the mountain, from the east, a thousand men were marching into Silvertown—Zephites, by their horned headdresses, behind a commander on horseback.
Over the past year, a small but steady trickle of refugees from Silvertown managed to reach safety in the hills and woodlands still controlled by Obann. Collecting intelligence for Baron Bault, Martis had interviewed a number of them, so he already had some idea of the conditions in Silvertown. The people were enslaved, forced to labor on Goryk Gillow’s building projects.
But the main thing was that there was not enough to eat in Silvertown. The city had always been a mining center, the land around it ill-suited for farming.
“A coronation?” Orth mused, when Merffin had him as a guest for a private luncheon at his house. “But how could we ever hold a proper coronation? The Crown of Kai, of Obann, has been lost for centuries; even King Ozias couldn’t find it. Nor has anyone mixed the anointing oil since long before Ozias’ time.”
“We have goldsmiths and jewelers in this city who can make a new crown every bit as royal as the old one,” Merffin said. “And isn’t the recipe for the oil given in the Scriptures? I’m sure it is.”
“Only for the oil used to anoint the High Prester, in the age before the kings,” said Orth. “For that we know the ingredients, but in what proportions is not recorded.”
“Don’t you want the king to have a coronation?”
“Ryons is already king by God’s election. He rode the great beast and delivered the city out of certain destruction. There is nothing we can add to that.”
“But would you be averse, as First Prester, to anointing the king with oil and placing the crown upon his head?”
Orth sat and thought. Merffin had hoped to impress him by serving him the daintiest of dishes for his meal, and yet the First Prester had eaten them like biscuits—Orth, who once was famous as the greatest gourmet in Obann. Whatever had happened to him during his absence from the city, Merffin thought, only a shell of a man remained. “But if all turns out well,” he thought, “we’ll soon have a new First Prester, too.”
What was Orth thinking about? You couldn’t read anything from his expression. Maybe his wits were wandering, and he wasn’t thinking at all. He hadn’t even touched his wine, one of Aggo’s choice vintages. Merffin half-expected him to fall asleep. But just before he lost his patience altogether, Orth finally spoke again.
“No,” he said, as if he considered the matter to be among the world’s least consequential things, “I would not be averse to it.”
“Good! Splendid! We’re agreed!” Merffin said, as heartily as he could, successfully masking his exasperation. “Leave the fashioning of the crown to me and the composition of the oil to some of those experts at the seminary. All will be taken care of as it should be.”
“By the grace of God, amen,” said Orth.
CHAPTER 14
How the Zeph Were Quelled
Martis knew the way to Silvertown, but he didn’t just walk up to the gate. Instead, he circled around, climbed a thickly wooded hill overlooking the city, and tried to assess the situation down below. Wytt chattered in his ear, but he couldn’t understand. But soon he saw for himself what Wytt was trying to tell him.
Down the mountain, from the east, a thousand men were marching into Silvertown—Zephites, by their horned headdresses, behind a commander on horseback.
Over the past year, a small but steady trickle of refugees from Silvertown managed to reach safety in the hills and woodlands still controlled by Obann. Collecting intelligence for Baron Bault, Martis had interviewed a number of them, so he already had some idea of the conditions in Silvertown. The people were enslaved, forced to labor on Goryk Gillow’s building projects.
But the main thing was that there was not enough to eat in Silvertown. The city had always been a mining center, the land around it ill-suited for farming.
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