Chapter Two
“What?” Ethyr burst out, forgetting himself. The insanity of such a claim made the atmosphere lose any weight. “But I’m not a priest!”
“I’m well aware,” the man said coldly.
Ethyr stared, jaw dropped in shocked stupidity. It made no sense. It made so little sense that he could not think of any further protests.
The man clicked his tongue and glanced around the hamlet, eying a pile of goat manure sitting to the side of a hut.
It occurred to Ethyr that he must be the head priest, but a name was far from him; everything to do with that life was far from him.
The news they got of kings and priests and royal gossip were snippets of third-party hearsay from a villager’s occasional venture to the market and the twice-yearly festivals when the whole commune gathered together.
“I imagine it won’t take you long to pack,” the priest said.
“Pack?”
The man leveled a contemptuous stare back at him. “Yes. We must return to the palace at once. Or did you think you could be king from… here?” He spoke the word as a thinly-veiled replacement for one more insulting.
“I can’t be king at all!” Ethyr cried.
“Please, sir,” his aunt rasped, voice strangled with tears. “You cannot take him from us, he is our only child.”
“If it were my decision, I would not,” the man said brusquely. “But it is not mine. The gods have spoken. They will take what they want if it is not given to them. Do you dare deny the will of the gods?”
Tebhen reached around Ethyr, resting a hand on Deian’s arm with a pained, resigned expression.
Ethyr looked between them, choking on his disbelief.
Everyone was staring at him like they'd never seen him before in their lives.
He turned to Mikel. He stood straight-backed, framed by the uneven line of his doorway with an arm around his younger sister clinging to his tunic.
The confused anguish on his face gave no indication that he was about to stand up for him.
“I cannot be king,” Ethyr said again, desperately. Desperate for someone to tell him this was a mistake or a terrible joke, or to wake him up from a dream.
“Ethyr,” Tebhen said softly. Ethyr looked at him, agonized. “If it is the gods’ wish, there is no protest, no war big enough that can deny them.”
“Your father is right,” the priest said. “If you care for the lives here, you will do as the gods command. You must become accustomed to putting others’ lives before your own. If you have to start on this level, so be it.”
Ethyr shook his head. “But… can’t I bring them with me?”
“The village?” the man asked in disgust.
“No! My aunt and uncle. I’m the only family they have left.”
“Family,” he said the word like it was beneath him, “means nothing to you now. Your life is dedicated to the gods, you have no attachment to any others.” He sighed, shaking his head in disappointment.
“To put me through this, at this time in my life…” He trailed off into a mutter and gestured.
The female guard stepped forward. “Poyut will escort you to get your things… if you have any.”
Ethyr didn’t move, still expecting… something. Anything. Someone to tell him he didn’t have to do this.
“Come,” Tebhen said quietly, pulling his elbow. “Let’s gather your things.”
Ethyr followed blindly, hand still clutching Deian’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held it like that; years and years ago, when he was a boy and it seemed a safe anchor in a world so much larger and louder than him. Now it felt as small and helpless as he did.
The guard followed, as did the eyes of the villagers, as they walked through the village center, which was nothing but dirt and chickens and a small well.
A trodden path led to their hut, the same as all the others around it: more thatched roof than stone wall, a single circular room inside with a fire pit at its center, clay storage built against the sides, and a few woven baskets.
Ethyr stood in the doorway while Tebhen walked inside and gathered the few things Ethyr could claim as his own: the woven belt Mikel had gifted him, a sleeved undershirt and tunic, his stockings and cloak and mittens.
Each item Tebhen lifted out of the baskets brought a new pang to Ethyr’s heart, remembering the days upon days he had watched each one carefully crafted by Deian’s gentle hands, his excitement building as they came to life.
Every twist of the drop spindle to create the yarn, every weave of Lifaya’s borrowed loom, every stitch of the needle, she had imbued her love into.
Deian leaned her face into his shoulder and began to weep.
Tebhen gathered it all into one basket and brought it over. Ethyr reached out to take it but the guard stepped forward and grabbed it instead.
Tebhen patted Deian’s back, his own face tense to hold back tears. “We always knew he was destined for greater things than our small village,” he told her. “There is no higher honor we could have asked for.”
‘Honor’ was the last thing Ethyr would describe it as.
‘Unjust’ felt more apt, or perhaps ‘punishment’.
The gods chose a king from priests who had trained their whole lives for the opportunity.
Even Ethyr knew that. Why choose some random nobody from the edge of the kingdom?
It was unfair. Unfair. Unfair! Ethyr wanted to scream it.
But his mind felt trapped inside his body, which could do nothing but stand amongst the stone walls that constituted his whole life.
Tebhen drew Ethyr into his arms and kissed him in the crook of his nose like he used to when he was still small enough to sit in his lap. Then he clasped Ethyr so tight he could hardly breathe.
“Be strong,” he whispered. When he pulled away his eyes were wet.
Tebhen tried to tug Deian away but she brushed him off and threw her arms around Ethyr, sobbing.
“The gods gifted you to us when we could have none of our own,” she said, barely coherent through her tears.
“They could not have given me anything I would cherish more.” She sniffed loudly, leaning away and wiping her face only for more tears to replace the ones she dried.
“I will take it as a mark of their benevolence that I had you at all, and not cruelty that they steal you away.” She planted hard kisses on his cheeks, leaving them wet with her tears, and hugged him again.
Ethyr hugged her back on reflex alone. He still felt numb. Tebhen pried her off and held her back.
“You know that we love you,” he said firmly. “Remember that we always will.”
Ethyr nodded.
“The High Priest is waiting, Your Divinity.”
Ethyr looked at the guard, not believing that she was talking to him. But she was. The woman stepped outside, carrying his basket under one arm. Ethyr trailed after.
The priest had retreated to the side of the carriage, the threatening expression of the other guard keeping the villagers at a distance.
Both guards had sheaths strapped to their leather belts, and the colorful fabric-wrapped hilts nestled at the top were enough to dissuade anyone from tempting boundaries.
“Make way,” the guard leading Ethyr boomed.
Villagers practically scrambled over each other to move aside.
Once again, they all stared at Ethyr like he was a stranger as he walked through the parted crowd.
People he would consider family, who had watched him grow and who he had watched grow, who had laughed with him and chided him, whose homes he could wander into with only a quick greeting to announce his presence—staring like he was one of the exotic animal pelts travelers showed off at festivals.
Ethyr stopped in front of the old priest. Poyut leaned into the carriage to set the basket down, then stepped to the side and stood at attention. The priest gestured to the open door.
“Your Divinity.” He did not say it with ill-intent, but with clear impatience.
Ethyr glanced over his shoulder. Tebhen and Deian had followed, but they stood with the rest of the villagers several paces away.
Deian was still sobbing into her hands, Tebhen’s arm wrapped around her in futile comfort.
Ethyr looked to Mikel, who hadn’t moved at all, in body or expression.
His heart dropped to his stomach as cold reality stiffened his spine.
No one was going to stand up for him. No one was going to stop this.
He turned and stepped towards the open door, flinching back when the guard held out a hand. He blinked at it, then slowly reached out to take it and let her act as support to hoist into the carriage.
The inside was even more luxurious than the exterior.
The outside of the carriage was painted white, but the inside was a beautiful blue like the color of a clear sky and the floor was covered in a plush red rug.
Stretching across the ends of the carriage were seats wrapped in gold silk filled with what must have been loose wool, as its spongy consistency sank under his weight.
He caught a glimpse of the dumbfounded faces of the crowd, then the old man stepped into the carriage and blocked his view. The guard closed the door after him and the priest reached over to swing an embossed golden latch down to secure it in place.
The small circular window in the door was latticed, half-obscuring the view, but Ethyr saw Mikel break from his door frame and take a few steps forward.
For a moment, Ethyr thought he was about to speak up; that he would charge in front of the carriage and challenge the absurdity and injustice of all this. He didn’t.
The guards returned to their mounts and the priest reached up to another golden handle that was attached to the wall behind him, its semi-circle interrupted in the middle with an elaborately carved butterfly.
He knocked it twice against the wall, the driver slapped his reins, and the carriage strained forward.