Chapter Five #3
“My name is Klara,” she told him. “I am the Head Priest.”
“I thought Yorith was Head Priest.”
“No, he is High Priest. I manage the daily overseeing of the temple.”
Ethyr had no idea what Yorith did besides stand around looking dour, so that didn’t really differentiate them. She held out a square package, which Ethyr realized only after taking was a bundle of what Yorith called ‘paper,’ bound between two boards wrapped in leather.
“He asked me to deliver this to you. It is best you study it as much as you can before tomorrow evening.”
More studying. Ethyr leaned his head back, groaning.
“If you have any questions, ask a servant to fetch me. I will be staying in the palace tonight and tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Ethyr agreed miserably.
“You can refer to me as Head Priest, Head Priest Klara, or just Klara. Whatever you prefer; any title would be understood if you ask for me. And please be careful on the balcony.”
“Balcony?”
She nodded to the platform behind him.
“Oh.” That’s what it was called. He looked at it, wondering what she was so worried about. He hadn’t been anywhere close to falling over. “Uh… sure. I’ll be careful.”
“Thank you.” She bowed, then left.
Ethyr sat on the bed, jerking in surprise when he sank deep into it and almost slipped right off. After some wiggling, he managed to get a secure seat.
He opened the wooden cover. Painted on the page was an image of a man and woman kissing. He scrunched his face and flipped to the next one. It was two men kissing, one holding the other’s cock.
Ethyr slammed it shut, looking up and around as heat pricked his face.
There was no one in the room, but the door was wide open.
He got up to shut it and returned to the bed, pulling the bundle back into his lap.
He sucked in a deep breath, heart pounding, and opened it again.
The next paper illustrated a man with his face between a woman’s legs, tongue extended.
Then it was two men again, one kneeling with the other’s dick in his mouth.
A memory of kneeling on damp spring earth, the air still cold with melting snow, Mikel’s fingers buried in his hair as he muffled involuntary noises into his other fist. But flipping through the pages, they illustrated far more invasive activities than Ethyr and Mikel had ever done.
Ever would do.
Tears blurred his vision. His last memory of Mikel was of him standing like a slapped idiot, watching the carriage take Ethyr. Not a single word of protest, not the slightest attempt to stop it.
He flung the papers off his lap to the ground, the hard cover hitting a bare part of the tiled floor and bouncing to a stop with a loud clatter.
‘No protest, no war big enough’? Who cared!? They could have tried, tried at all. Deian was the only one who had, and she never stood up to anyone, soft and kind as she was.
Ethyr flopped to his stomach, burying his face in his arms. He tried to hold it back, but the stuttering breaths and wet eyes burst to sobs and a flood of tears. He wailed into the blanket until it and his face and his arms were soaked and he couldn’t breathe past the gasping cries.
He lay there a while longer after he ran out of tears, misery holding him down like a goat to slaughter.
Finally he sniffed, wiped snot off his lip with his arm, and sat up. The blanket and his arm were smeared with blue and orange and flecks of gold.
He jumped off the bed and ran to the mirror. The paint that had been around his eyes was smudged across his whole face. He grabbed the metal bowl and pitcher that had been left near the fire, scrubbing his face until it was clean and the white cloth was dyed new colors.
The circlet from his hair had fallen off onto the bed. He brought it to the desk, then slid the armband off, unhooked the belt, and left those with it.
He threw the rest of his clothes off, pulled on the silk undershirt, and crawled under the pile of blankets into an impossibly soft bed that cradled him like a cloud.
For the first time in days, he was not woken by a person. Bright light flooding his room woke him, and he squinted blearily into it as consciousness returned. He glanced around the room, but it was empty and in the same state as the previous night.
He stumbled out of bed. The fire had burnt out and the sunlight was too strong to be early morning, so he must have slept at least through that. But he didn’t know when exactly he’d fallen asleep, either. The feast had felt like hours, and it had been night that whole time.
He sank onto the chair, staring at the accessories he’d left on the desk. Despite the long rest, or perhaps because of it, he was still groggy and tired.
The bundle of pages lying open, face down on the ground, drew his eye.
Today was when he’d be offered to the gods.
And so he’d either insult them and die, please them and remain here for years, or displease them and maybe be sent home.
The latter seemed unlikely, given that they’d asked for him by name.
Did they already know him? What he was like, how he had grown up?
Had they seen all the private, intimate moments between him and Mikel?
He retrieved the papers, trying to flatten one that had bent.
Then he looked through them again. He skimmed past the man-woman depictions, but the two men intrigued him.
He wondered if he and Mikel would have thought to do even half the things they were doing.
It looked pleasurable in the illustrations, but would the gods be gentle with him?
Did they understand a mortal body had physical limits, or would they ravage his body without caring if he enjoyed it?
The door opened. He looked up, snapping the cover closed and dumping it on the desk, but he couldn’t hide his flushed face.
Gionan didn’t care. “Come, Divine Ethyr,” he beckoned. “You must eat, then we will see how your new clothes fit you.”
Breakfast was the usual fruit and nuts, though this time it was accompanied by some bread and cheese.
Then he was brought to a room filled with fabric and clothes and half-sewn fabric that looked like it might become clothes.
By the time he had tried on every option and the tailor had pinned and sewed and adjusted tirelessly, it was already evening.
Ethyr was given another thorough wash and dressed in the attire Gionan and the tailor had deemed best. Then he was taken to the lower hall where Yorith waited, and was presented to him.
The attendants stood anxiously to the side as Yorith examined him. He took much longer than he had for the previous night’s outfit, walking slowly around Ethyr several times. For the fact that Ethyr felt almost naked, it was a bit humiliating.
The loose, gold pants he wore did not tie at the front, but had two ties at his hips, which left openings down the sides of his ass and thighs.
It did not tie at his ankles either, but below his knees, the rest of the silk ribbon wrapping around his calves to soft leather sandals.
This time it was the tunic that was see-through, though Ethyr wasn’t sure the word ‘tunic’ could be applied to it.
The shimmery purple fabric fit snug to his torso, and even climbed up his neck.
The back was open, covered only by gold laces that pulled the tunic as tight as it was.
Instead of sleeves, draping off his shoulders were two delicate strings of gold, which in turn had further gold tassels dangling from them, each ending in a polished shard of amethyst.
His eyes and lips had been painted purple and gold as well.
A gold collar embedded with green jewels rested over his collarbone, and both wrists and one ankle had circles of gold around them that clinked delicately together when he moved.
The only part of the outfit Ethyr could appreciate were the sandals, which were much more practical than slippers.
“Good,” Yorith finally approved, coming to a stop in front of Ethyr. “Did you study the book Klara provided you?”
Ethyr’s face grew hot and he cleared the sudden thorn in his throat. The ‘book’ could have only been one thing. “I looked through it,” he admitted, trying not to sound sheepish, but he couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper.
“Then you’re as ready as I can make you,” Yorith said. “We must go.” Ethyr’s heart began beating so fast he could hear it in his ears. He watched Yorith walk towards the front doors, frozen in place until Gionan prodded his back.
“Hurry up, Divine Ethyr,” he whispered. Ethyr strode forward, catching up to Yorith. He focused on his steps, on putting one foot in front of the other, until they got to the carriage and Poyut helped them inside.
He watched the palace drift from view as the horses pulled them higher up the mountain. The dread and disbelief that had hung over Ethyr since leaving the village sank deeper into his belly.