A guard entered the room and moved directly to the foot of the dais. Head bowed, he waited for permission to speak.
"What is it, Mosark?" Urim asked dully.
"Pryak, Voice of the God, is outside asking for an immediate audience. With him are more than a score of priests."
Urim pursed his lips in surprise. What could have gotten into that gabbling old fool to seek out one who despised him and his kind? Once a year Pryak came to the palace with a group of his attendants to discuss the rites held during the Sacrificial Games. It must be that reason Pryak was here now, although he was much earlier than usual.
Best see him and get it over with. He was very tired; perhaps he could sleep a little during the afternoon. Time passed quickly when spent in sleep; by evening Vulcar should be back, either with Alurna or with word she would never return. This uncertainty of her fate was what he found unbearable; if only he could know....
More likely he would get the truth from the barbarian whom Katon had recommended so highly. Everything about that young man emphasized his fitness to cope with the wilderness and its savage life. There was a keen alert mind behind those fine gray eyes—and a body well able to carry out the dictates of that mind.
"What shall I tell him, Urim of Sephar?"
Urim shook off his thoughts. "Bring him in," he said resignedly. "His men, too—let them all in. Except for their wagging tongues they are harmless."
At Pryak's entrance, Urim rose and nodded briefly in formal recognition of the other's office, then sat down again. The high-priest acknowledged the nod as curtly, and came close to the dais.
The balance of the priests spread out in a rough half circle close behind their leader. Urim noticed all were clad in the long, loose-sleeved robes ordinarily worn only during the rainy season. None was armed, it being forbidden for members of the priesthood to bear weapons.