Chapter Three #2
Ethyr looked down at his crossed legs and back up. He hadn’t realized there was a proper way to sit.
“Tuck your legs under you,” the priest instructed impatiently when he didn’t move. “Don’t hunch your shoulders like that, keep them straight with your back. If you must relax, you can lean back on one arm, never forward.”
Ethyr had barely gotten his legs under him by the time the old man finished the other instructions. He shifted a little, trying to keep his back straight when the weight of his body on his legs was deeply uncomfortable.
“In civilized company, you do not eat with your hands unless the dish calls for it.” He held out the metal stick. It had two prongs on the end of it, like a tiny pitchfork.
“For cuts of meat and vegetables like this,” he pointed to the dish Ethyr had been reaching for, “you gently spear them one at a time. For longer or more malleable ingredients, you scoop them up with the forked end.” He pointed to a plate that held leafy vegetables smothered in sauce.
“For sauces and soups, you use a spoon, though it is acceptable to tear off a piece of your bread and use that.” He gestured to the small loaf in front of Ethyr, a golden cream color he had only seen in the expensive sweet bread sold at the market.
They were lucky to afford it once a year at a festival.
The priest thrust the tiny pitchfork towards him. Ethyr took it and used the prongs to stab a nugget and bring it to his mouth.
It was not just his hunger after fasting so long; it was without a doubt the most delicious thing he had ever eaten. The crispy exterior crackled under his teeth and broke to tender, moist meat on the inside. He started to shovel more into his mouth and was met with another hand smack.
“Eat slowly,” the priest ordered. “Sit up straight.”
He realized he had hunched over and pulled himself straight again with a sigh. “What’s the point of so many rules just to eat?” he muttered.
“The point is to show that you’re a refined, civilized person. Slovenly table manners demonstrate slovenly culture.” The priest carefully took his own bite of food.
Ethyr frowned. He still didn’t see what difference it made. Eating was eating: the food would end up in the same place regardless, who cared how it got there?
He glanced around. The two guards had taken post on either side of the room, each by a door. His eyes passed over the tapestries.
“Those people are lying down,” he said, pointing to the depiction of a group around a table similar to theirs, except they were lounging on their sides and elbows.
“Reclining is acceptable and expected in casual company,” the priest sniffed. “Your presence dictates formality wherever you go, and you must present yourself accordingly.”
Ethyr sulkily returned to the meal, doing his best to follow the arbitrary rules.
Every error earned him a smack, which was about every minute.
They were light enough, but after so many, the slaps were beginning to sting his knuckles.
His legs were numb, too. It wasn’t enough to put a damper on the meal, which was so good his mouth wouldn’t stop watering even after he’d stuffed himself full, so he ate more.
He didn’t stop until he was full to his throat.
“I suppose that’ll have to do for today. We’ll continue your lessons tomorrow.” The priest stood and peered down his nose at Ethyr. “Hurry up, then.”
Ethyr leaned on a palm, huffing a shallow breath. “I don’t think I can stand up.” He flopped onto his back. “I’ll just lay here for a bit.”
“Absolutely not,” the priest snapped. “Conduct yourself with grace.”
“I followed your stupid eating rules, but we’re not eating anymore.”
“The activity does not matter,” he replied sharply. “You must maintain dignity and decorum at all times. If you do not stand, the guards will force you.”
Ethyr sighed and lay still a second more, then pushed himself to his feet.
The priest turned on his heels and stalked off to the door at the far end of the room.
Ethyr followed before he could snap at him again, trying to shake out his numb legs at the same time.
Poyut took up his basket and followed. The door did not lead back into open boat, but to a narrow hall.
The priest had calmed himself by the time he reached a doorway. “This is your room.”
Ethyr tried not to gawk. It was just as elaborately decorated, though much smaller, than the other room.
Instead of a table, this one had a beautiful quilt laying in the center, one corner strategically pulled back to expose a thick, stuffed cloth beneath it.
Ethyr had to assume it was a sleeping mat, though it was nothing like the reed mats and animal furs he was used to rolling out for the night.
“I get this whole room to myself?”
“Yes. There is a basin and pitcher there to wash your hands and face. It will be refreshed in the morning to do so again. Sleep well.” He walked off, presumably to the other room whose doorway Ethyr had seen several paces past this one.
Poyut rested his basket against the wall, gave him a low bow, and left.
He plopped down, relieved to be able to sit normally, and began unwrapping the ties from his calves.
The two long tongues of leather that hugged his leg fell open without the ties securing them and he pulled his shoes off, stretching his legs out with a groan.
He didn’t think he could kneel like that for so long.
And for every meal? Who decided that torture was necessary?
When his legs didn’t feel like they were being pricked with thousands of needles, he pulled off his outer tunic, washed his hands and face, and crawled onto the impossibly soft bedroll.
Despite doing next to nothing for hours, exhaustion washed over him in waves.
He thought he would pass out immediately.
Instead he lay awake and stared into the moonlit hall.
His room itself had no windows and the stuffy air of late summer was heavy inside.
The movement of the boat down the river, which before had been barely noticeable, became sickening.
The mass of food and wine in his stomach felt like he’d eaten a sack of hot coals and swallowed it down with curdled milk.
He tossed and turned. He threw off the quilt. He fluttered his linen undershirt to circulate air beneath the clinging fabric. It made no difference. Sweat still beaded on his forehead and his stomach ached.
The heat of the room, the jostling of the boat, the food sloshing in his stomach—an urge flung him upright and he scrambled to the pitcher to vomit into it, water sloshing grotesquely with the addition.
When his stomach was empty, he crawled miserably back to the mat.
After lying on it for a minute, he sat up again and laid the quilt out beside it, then lay on that instead.
The solid support of the floor was both more comfortable and less hot.
He stared at the red-painted wall, longing for his straw mat and the ground’s cooling dirt beneath it, Deian and Tebhen’s forms nearby, the ceaseless lullaby of crickets right outside the door. All he could hear was the rush of water beneath the boat, carrying him far away from that life.
He woke to being pulled upright, the involuntary movement forcing him awake from surprised confusion more than anything, and he jerked away from the unfamiliar face beside him.
“Good,” someone said from up high. “Now that you’re awake, wash and meet me in the refectory.”
He turned groggily to the voice, which came from the priest standing above him—though he was already leaving out the doorway. The man at his side had moved away, over to the pitcher and bowl.
Ethyr rubbed his eyes, before memories of last night flung them wide open. “Wait, there’s—!”
The man was already pouring. Pristine, clear water fell from the pitcher into the bowl. Ethyr dragged a hand through his hair, gaze flitting around the room as he tried to order his addled thoughts. He was positive he had dumped his stomach there last night.
“Fresh water was provided this morning, Your Divinity,” the man told him.
Ethyr stared at him.
He gestured to the bowl, a new cloth draped over its side. “It is time to wake and wash, Your Divinity.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“What would you like to be called?”
“My name, thank you very much. It’s Ethyr.”
“As you wish, Divine Ethyr.”
Ethyr dropped his face into a hand. When he lifted it, the man was leaving. “Wait!” He paused and turned around. “What, uh…” Ethyr lowered his voice. “What’s that priest’s name?”
A curious smile quirked his lips. “High Priest Yorith.”
Ethyr exhaled in relief. He had begun to worry he’d have to ask the priest himself. At that point, it would have been embarrassing.
“Do you need anything else, Divine Ethyr?”
“No,” he sighed. “Thank you.”
The man dipped his head and walked out.
Ethyr rubbed his palms vigorously over his face, sucking in a deep breath and trying to collect himself. His head was stuffed with wool and his throat was parched and, worst of all, this was still real.
Instead of washing, he lifted the bowl and gulped down a mouthful of water, but gagged and almost spat it back out. It had a bitter, floral taste to it, like he’d sucked water out of a flower petal.
He sniffed it. It smelled like flowers, too. Resigned, he washed his face and hands, put his tunic and boots back on, and tied the woven belt around his waist instead of his leather one. It was a meager comfort, but it was a comfort nonetheless.
He met the priest in the other room, assuming correctly that that was the ‘refectory’ he mentioned. The guards were there—he wondered if they’d stood there all night—and two more strangers were there as well, standing patiently by a wall.
The table had been cleared, and in place of the dozens of small plates was a single platter hosting pieces of fruit and a bowl of nuts. Ethyr wasn’t sure he could eat even that. The thought of swallowing anything solid dripped nausea down his spine.