Chapter Four #2
Ethyr bristled, but he bit down his offense and, after another glance at the attendants, awkwardly slipped his undershirt off and sat on the hard floor to untie his boots as quickly as possible.
He bathed with others all the time, but they were usually naked too, or at least not intently staring at him.
Having three clothed people watching and waiting for him raised his hair.
It would have flushed his face if it wasn’t already warm from the steam.
He slipped into the pond with eager relief, letting the milky water obscure his body.
There was a raised ledge circling the sides, keeping his shoulders above water but allowing his feet to dangle freely.
He was barely seated before the assault began.
His arms were lifted and scrubbed, his head held still while his hair was doused in water and lathered in soap.
His shoulders and back were sponged down, his face and ears rubbed vigorously with a cloth, and even his fingers were scoured, getting every bit of dirt from under his cuticles and nails.
“Will you step out of the water please, Divine Ethyr?” Gionan asked.
Ethyr stood, only too happy for the torture to be over and to be clothed again.
But instead of being offered a drying cloth or undershirt, the women set to work cleaning his feet and calves and the man drove a cloth between his asscheeks with bold determination.
Ethyr jumped away from him, almost knocking over a woman and slipping on the smooth floor.
“Be careful, Your Divinity,” he said, stressed. “What’s wrong?”
Ethyr huffed in disbelief. “Don’t shove your fingers up my ass!”
Gionan recoiled, blinking at him as though trying to decide whether to be offended or confused. “I am only trying to clean you, Divine Ethyr.”
“That doesn’t need to be cleaned!”
“Of course it does,” he fretted. “More than anywhere else, in fact.”
Ethyr shook his head, baffled. “Can I dress now please?”
“No, we must finish washing. The gods do not appreciate filth.”
“Good.” Ethyr crossed his arms. “Maybe they’ll send me back then.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Divine Ethyr, they would kill you.”
His arms dropped. “What?!”
“They will see it as an insult.”
“The priest said they didn’t kill kings who displeased them!”
“They would not hurt a king who no longer pleases them, but anyone who directly offends or insults them will face their wrath, king or not.”
Ethyr stared, mouth open. He snapped it shut.
When the attendants moved over and resumed their work, he clenched his jaw and endured it.
At the very least they were methodical and efficient, and the rest of his body was soon clean to their satisfaction.
He was offered a cloth, soft and plush like the rug in the carriage, and dried off.
Then he was put in a yellow silk robe and taken to another room.
It was bigger than his entire hut, with a fire burning in a brick-lined hole in the wall.
He didn’t know why; the summer air was more than warm enough, and there was nothing cooking over it.
A round rug covered most of the floor, tapestries lined the walls, and a platform jutted out into the air from an opening in the far wall.
Against the left wall was a legged structure almost like a table, except that it was puffy and fat with blankets and had a draping roof of sheer, purple veils.
“What is that?”
Gionan glanced at it, surprised. “It’s a bed, Your Divinity. This is your bedroom.”
“You sleep on that?”
The attendants exchanged looks.
“It is quite comfortable,” Gionan reassured him. “Far more comfortable than those floor mats.”
He placed a hand on Ethyr’s back before he could say anything else and herded him towards a table that at least looked like one, though instead of a bench it had a single chair with an elaborately carved back-piece.
When they were close to the table, people popped into view and Ethyr jerked back in surprise.
It took him a second to realize it was him and the attendant.
“A standing reflection?” he said, awed. He’d only seen reflections in still waters. He pressed his fingers against it, wondering if it would ripple, but they hit solid surface.
“It’s called a mirror, Divine Ethyr,” Gionan said, pushing him gently to the chair. Ethyr’s face and shoulders were in full view from that angle, and he looked twice at himself.
His hair was a more dynamic brown than it looked in pond reflections, his eyes brighter, the lines and curves of his face more defined.
He’d always known his features were soft, softer than the chiseled jaws of most of the village men anyway, but in full view they were also delicate in a way he hadn’t seen even in women.
The ends of his hair curled slightly and where light hit it, the brown turned into a halo of gold.
He turned his head to watch the light shift across it, locks shining smooth and clean after the aggressive cleanse.
His attention pulled back to the room when his feet and hands were grabbed again. The same ladies who had scrubbed them clean set to work cutting his nails, filing them smooth with a rough stone, then rubbing them with an ointment until they shined.
Another woman arrived with a bundle of clothes, and Ethyr once again had to strip under their watchful eyes, though this time he was dressed immediately.
The woman pinned an oversized tunic until it was snug to his body, then used charcoal to mark the spots before unpinning them.
She did the same for fake shoes made of linen, and stockings that joined together and covered his pelvis—called pants, according to Gionan.
It was a lot of work for some clothes. Deian had always made his tunic fit through eye alone. But the thought made his chest tighten and his eyes moisten, so he shook it away.
“We need something for tonight,” Gionan said as the other attendants draped Ethyr back into the robe. The tailor hummed and nodded, examining Ethyr.
“He will have to wear one of Verusias’s,” she said. “We can adjust it to fit well enough in an hour. It’s not as important as the offering regalia.”
“Of course,” Gionan agreed. The woman gathered up her fabric and materials and hurried out.
“What’s the offering regalia?” Ethyr asked.
“It is what you will wear to be presented to the gods tomorrow,” the man told him.
Tomorrow. The word sunk to the pit of his stomach.
“Then what’s tonight?” he asked after swallowing his nerves.
“The inauguration feast.” Gionan nodded to the two women and, with deep bows, they left as well.
With only two of them in it, the room felt even bigger.
The attendant guided him back to the mirror-table and Ethyr sat, staring at his own face again.
“You will be introduced to the officials of your administration and the patricians.”
Ethyr scratched his scalp, wondering if he was speaking a new language. “Who?”
Gionan pulled Ethyr’s hand from his head and rested it in his lap, then started mussing with his hair. “Unfortunate it’s so short,” he mumbled to himself. He lifted a white ribbon and looped it under Ethyr’s hair, behind his ears, and tied it at his forehead.
“Those who govern the kingdom and influential civilians,” he finally answered Ethyr’s question, adjusting the ribbon so it pushed his hair back.
Pulling open a little box built into the side of the table, Gionan took out what looked like tiny brooms with bristles made of fur instead of straw, and several gold-and-pearl containers. He opened one to a circle of blue. When he swept the soft bristles across it, blue dust plumed into the air.
He crouched beside the chair. “Close your eyes, please, Divine Ethyr.”
He eyed the man warily, but closed his eyes. A tickle swept across his eyelid and he jerked back, scowling at Gionan still crouched and holding the tiny broom close to his face.
“What are you doing?”
“Painting your face.”
“What? Why?”
“For the same reason one dyes their clothes or wears jewelry. Please try to keep still, Divine Ethyr, and close your eyes again.”
“I thought I was supposed to be clean,” he said, face scrunched as the powder was brushed onto his skin.
“You are clean,” Gionan replied, surprised.
“But you’re covering my face in dust.”
“It’s not dust, Divine Ethyr, it is cosmetics.”
“It feels like dust,” he muttered. Gionan didn’t reply.
Ethyr sat still for so long his skin began to itch.
The tickling of the soft hairs against his face didn’t help.
He tried to bounce his leg to relieve some of the restlessness but Gionan told him to stop.
Well, asked him to stop, but Ethyr was quickly learning that the polite requests were non-negotiable.
“I’ve finished, Divine Ethyr.”