Pryak, his close-set eyes of watery blue blazing with an inner fire, rose from his chair.
"For many moons," he began, choosing his words carefully, "the loyal servants of the God-Whose-Name-May-Not-Be-Spoken have been forced to bow to the unjust commands of a hated oppressor. Now the time is at hand to end this oppression. The way has been shown to me by our God; listen closely, for the future of the priesthood in Sephar depends on how faithfully my orders are carried out.
"This is my plan...."
For nearly an hour the high priest spoke without interruption. His cold, crisp sentences seemed to explode in the listeners' faces. Twice, old Cardon, grizzled from passing years of service for his God, half rose from his stool, words of protest forming on his lips. But each time the mad glare of Pryak's eyes gave him pause.
When the high-priest had concluded, he watched the faces of his audience, waiting for his words to sink home. Much depended upon their reaction.
Somehow the very audacity of Pryak's plan seemed to carry weight with the under-priests. Smiles of admiration appeared on several faces; one of the Council chuckled openly. Cardon, alone, seemed unconvinced; but he knew well his chief would brook no interference once he had determined to act.
Pryak was satisfied. "It is agreed, then," he said. "We meet in the Room of the God at the hour named; the others will have their instructions before then and all will be in readiness."
In the palace throne-room, Urim, ruler of Sephar, sat slouched in his chair atop the dais. Despite the grief and worry from loss of his daughter, Urim was determined his duties should not be shirked because of personal sorrow.
The late morning audience was nearly over. Save for a few citizens and a handful of guards attending the king, the hall was empty. In another hour Urim could return to his private quarters.