The acoustics of that place were such, and his senses so sharpened by nervous dread, that he could see and hear everything that took place in the nave below. A red velvet carpet had been unrolled from the altar all the way to the massive doors. Anselm Vry was down there, dressed in a cloak of state. It had the repeating eye motif of a watchman’s cloak, but was brocaded with silver wire. It looked very heavy. The Burgrave was there as well in full regalia, though his head was bare. They stood surrounded by a clutch of green-robed priests who prayed and wafted holy smoke around the Burgrave, while young acolytes went about lighting hundreds of candles and dozens of censers until the icons shone like the sun.

“I said, leave us!” Vry shouted.

“Milord bailiff,” one of the priests insisted, “this is a holy precinct, and your authority here is—”

Vry established that authority by drawing a long dagger and pointing it at the priest’s face. “The Burgrave is not well. I must administer his physic before the procession begins, and I will not have you watch me do so,” he said.

The priest had turned deathly pale when the knife came out. Now he nodded and gestured at his fellows and the acolytes. They streamed out of the nave quickly enough.

When Vry and the Burgrave were alone, the bailiff sheathed his dagger and then turned to look at the Burgrave with disdain. Ommen Tarness was weeping softly, a horrible sound well-amplified by the dome of the chapel. Up on his perch, Malden peered down with unsympathetic interest.

“I don’t want to wear it,” Ommen said, his voice thick with snot. “I won’t! I’m free, finally free. Anselm, I feel . . . smarter today. I feel like—like I’m waking up from a very long nap, and I’m still groggy, but I feel—”

Vry slapped the Burgrave hard across the face. Then he drew the crown from inside his silver cloak-of-eyes. “We discussed this. You will put on the crown. You will go out there and make your speech. I have an archer standing ready to cut you down if you start to babble. When you’re done speaking the words I gave you, I will emerge and announce that you have been ill and are no longer fit to serve as Burgrave. Then I will take you away from all this, and you’ll never have to wear the crown again.”

“You . . . promise?” the Burgrave asked. He sounded like a naive child being promised a candy if he was good during a court ceremony. “Never again?”

“Just this one last time. And anyway, this isn’t the crown you’re afraid of. This one doesn’t talk.” He lowered it over Ommen’s head, and the Burgrave bit his lip and mewled but didn’t stop him.