Chapter Five #2
There was nothing he could do except suffer through the event.
After the introductions, Yorith left him sitting alone, wandering off to talk to others.
The bench was iron, the first glimpse of a normal metal he’d seen in the palace, but the brilliantly embroidered cushions tied to it didn’t allow the mistake of seeing it as rustic.
Honestly Ethyr was just relieved to not be kneeling.
Plus he was glad for the company of the overflowing plants and leaves that surrounded the seat.
As the night continued, people got drunker and the manners Yorith had insisted were so important were left behind.
People shouted across the courtyard to each other, demanded livelier music and danced together, spilled drinks and dropped food.
Through it all, Ethyr was left alone as though he didn’t even exist.
“Your Divinity.”
He startled, looking over his shoulder to see Poyut standing behind him.
“Poyut!” He couldn’t have been more relieved to see a familiar and friendly face.
And one not covered in paint, though she had changed from her practical clothes to a long silk tunic and loose pants rather similar to his.
The braid that had pulled back the front of her short red hair was gone, letting her locks hang freely around her jaw.
“It is getting late, Your Divinity. I thought you might like to return to your room.”
“Am I allowed to?” Ethyr looked around for Yorith.
“Of course. The High Priest has retired for the night already.”
He frowned, annoyed that Yorith hadn’t bothered to let Ethyr know he was leaving. He stood, setting aside the wine he’d been nursing all night. An attendant swooped in out of nowhere to pick it up and carry it off. “I would very much like to leave now, thank you.”
Poyut dipped her head and held out an arm, so Ethyr walked ahead of her back into the lantern-lit halls of the palace.
When they reached his room, the fire was still going strong, and Ethyr realized it may have been for light.
With textiles and fabric covering every inch of the room, loose candles were perhaps too much of a risk.
But the large opening in his wall, leading out to a little platform, let in plenty of moonlight.
Ethyr glanced around. “Poyut?”
She paused from leaving. “Yes, Ethyr?”
“Where is my basket? You said they’d bring it.”
“They should have.” She glanced around the room. “I will ask a servant about it.”
“Thank you.”
When she was gone, the openness of the room was somehow oppressive. A silk undershirt had been laid over his bed—for him to sleep in, he assumed. He would have preferred linen.
He opened the two big chests in the room, one at the end of the bed and the other against a wall. They were empty.
He closed the one he was at and sat on it with a sigh.
For the first time that day, he had time to breathe and gather his surroundings.
The rug on his floor was a similar pattern to the painted corridor walls: symmetrical root-like tangles, except woven.
The wall hangings around his room depicted the gods, and those drew his attention more.
He rarely saw tapestries in his commune, and none at all in Linwood; in the north where animal husbandry was mostly goats and their main resource was leather, all that wool and dye was far too expensive to waste on anything but clothes and the occasional blanket.
The stories depicted on the tapestries were popular legends that Ethyr knew, some better than others.
There was Varuut having her dalliances with humans and getting a mortal woman pregnant while in male form.
She had refused to kill her destructive demigod son until people began burning her temples and tearing down her statues in anger.
So she ended him, then wept over his body for ten long years.
In that time, marriages and relationships fell apart, and there was no end to the disputes within every commune and community.
At last, the other gods bade the mortals to create a mausoleum and statue in memorial of her son, which assuaged her enough to return their sense of affection to their hearts.
The city of Varcuun, named after him and where his statue resided, remained one of the largest cities in Hyancia to that day.
Another tapestry depicted the legend of the sword Catocus had given a warrior, which could cut through any armor or shield and even other swords.
The warrior won the battle that saved his kingdom, but then he used the sword to become king and garner more power than anyone had before.
Catocus, angered that the warrior had misused his gift for personal gain, destroyed the sword.
Without it, other kingdoms were able to conquer the warrior-king’s and the kingdom’s name, along with the greedy king’s, were forgotten entirely.
A similar legend was on the next tapestry, though one Ethyr favored more and had often begged Lifaya to tell.
It was of the magical lyre that Langath painted into existence and gifted to a musician after hearing him play so beautifully it drew the god to tears.
But when the musician was hired to perform at a wedding, he became immediately enamored with the gorgeous bride.
He used the magic of the lyre to put everyone in a trance so he could kidnap her.
Langath painted another magical instrument, a flute, to give to the bride’s would-be-wife, and with it she commanded the musician’s own people to turn on him and kill him.
The feud it started between the two families was rumored to continue even to that day, though the magical instruments were lost to time and some still went on futile hunts to find them.
Then there were tapestries of Ithna and Gnaeus, the provider and the shepherd of the common people.
Ithna grew humans from seeds, but they were small and helpless in a world so full of wild forces.
So she taught them how to grow crops from seeds, just as she had grown the humans.
She bargained with the wild god of darkness to cast the land in cold for only part of the year, allowing the rest of the year for humans to plant and harvest and prepare.
It was because of her goodness and teachings that humans lived, and survived, at all.
One of Gnaeus’s most famous stories was on her tapestry, the first panel depicting her transformed into a humble sheep.
She was ignored by most, until one person noticed her alone and uncared for and took her in.
In reward for their kindness, she showed them how to make wool from her coat, thus providing much-needed warmth even during the cold season.
These were the legends Ethyr was most familiar with, the ones he had grown up hearing every spring and summer and harvest, and most of the days in-between.
The tapestry depicting Ainder and Gallus, on the other hand, was foreign to Ethyr.
He knew the first part—an infamously bad actor praying to Gallus, asking to become the best actor in the land, but even with Gallus’s help their acting skills did not improve.
Then Ainder arrived and showed the actor their innermost desire, because one could not embody true talent unless the talent they sought stemmed from true passion.
But the tale that Ethyr had always been told was that the actor’s passion had been weaving.
According to the tapestry, based on the rather scandalous images shown, their desire was for an entwining of an entirely different nature.
Ethyr was rather horrified at the casual depictions of such things.
Were those the kinds of legends they liked in the capital?
The last tapestry was of Kiaro, arriving at a grand party disguised as an old beggar.
He challenged the host to a competition for all his riches and possessions.
The host, laughing at this ridiculous proposal, accepted.
In all three challenges, Kiaro tricked or cheated to ensure he won, and in the end left the host impoverished and humiliated.
It was incredible to see all those colors, and to see the gods in color, too.
He’d always imagined them pale, because everyone surrounding him had always been light-skinned.
Even after burning in the sun, they never quite matched his own skin tone, either freckling or turning dull brown.
But here, half of the gods were depicted dusky-skinned like him; Varuut, Gallus, Ainder—and Langath was even darker.
Ethyr took in the images of all the gods he’d be face-to-face with tomorrow. He was going to be sick. He strode to the platform jutting into the night air for a breath of it, but stopped short in the doorway.
It faced the waterfall in the distance, whose constant roar had become background noise to him already.
But here it was much closer than it had been on the boat, and he realized the sheer size of it.
It fell leagues and leagues to the river below, which Ethyr couldn’t see, though he saw the misty cloud made by the impact rising up above the cliff.
Those at the feast had spoken of the forest swallowing people with fear in their eyes, yet they lived next to this, which Ethyr was sure could swallow them as easily as someone might inhale particles of dust.
He stepped up to the railing, chest-height for him, the stone refreshingly cool under his grip as he pulled himself up to see below. It was another manicured garden. No brambles, no thickets, no carpet of leaves and moss. The trees were small and spaced apart. His heart ached for a forest.
“Your Divinity!”
He dropped back down and turned at the harried exclamation. An unfamiliar woman was rushing towards him. She slowed, pressing a hand to her chest.
“Gnaeus help me, I thought you were about to dive over.”
Ethyr eyed her. “Who are you?” She wasn’t dressed in an attendant uniform; she wore a robe more like Yorith’s, save it was simpler, no embroidered hems and only a silver circle-pin holding the throat closed.