Chapter Ten
Ethyr’s outrage propelled him to a striding pace that even Poyut struggled to match.
“Ethyr,” she implored.
“You’re just going to do what he says?” Ethyr snapped over his shoulder. “Keep me prisoner?”
“I have no choice; I answer to him. If I don’t he will simply replace me.”
“You’re my guard,” Ethyr said angrily. “Shouldn’t you do what I want?”
“It doesn’t… it doesn’t work like that.”
“Of course not,” Ethyr growled. That decrepit geezer had made sure the entire city was wrapped around his finger.
Yorith wanted him to be king? Fine. He would be.
He stopped and turned, startling Poyut to an abrupt halt as well. “Who is Lyrian?” he demanded.
She blinked at him, speechless for a few seconds. “Uh… Lyrian, Master of the Guards?”
“Master of the Guards?!” Ethyr repeated, exasperated. “So don’t you answer to him?”
“Not anymore, not since I was promoted to this position. Yorith is in charge of all palace guards.”
Ethyr ground his teeth together. Of course he was. “Is there a way I can speak to him?”
“To Lyrian?”
“Yes!”
Poyut’s gaze drifted around. She looked mostly confused. “Maybe… but Yorith has confined you to your room. While that holds, I don’t think there is—”
“Try,” Ethyr ordered.
Poyut stared at him, shocked. He turned back around and marched the rest of the way to his room, leaving Poyut scrambling to keep up. She followed him in and watched him scoop up the shawl and jewelry to stuff into a chest.
“Why do you want to talk to Lyrian…?”
Ethyr glanced at the open doorway and the guards stationed to either side of it. Guards who, according to Poyut, reported directly to Yorith.
“Nevermind,” he muttered.
Poyut followed his gaze, then frowned at him. “I really am sorry, Ethyr. I just… I don’t have the influence you think I do.”
Ethyr closed his eyes. “I said nevermind. It’s fine.
Just go.” He closed the chest and sat heavily on it, dropping his head into his hands.
“Wait.” He lifted his head. Poyut halted in the doorway.
“The man who gave me that cloak… his name was Kyarin. He had pale skin and dark, short hair; darker and straighter than mine. He said he was coming to Mahyria. Can you try to find him? I want to give it back.”
“Of course, Your Divinity. I will see what I can find.” She lingered another few seconds before dipping her head and hurrying out.
The following days, the only time the door was opened was when a random servant brought trays of food to Ethyr. A few times in the beginning he heard Poyut arguing with the guards in the hall, but after that there were no familiar faces. Not even Gionan.
Ethyr's rage simmered to annoyance, then frustration, then boredom.
He paced his room; studied the tapestries; ate his meals as slowly as possible; he even tried on every article of clothing in the chests.
But the days dragged on, every second longer than the last, until he was literally counting them for lack of anything better to do.
After a week, his resolve had evaporated to desperation. When there was a knock on his door, he flung himself off the bed to eagerly open it. The servants had always just walked in.
Yorith stood in the doorway, hands behind his back and chin held high as he peered down at Ethyr. “Are you ready to begin your lessons with Dessin again?” he asked.
Even a few days ago, he might have responded with vitriol. But the thought of having something—anything—to do at that point was like a glass of cold water in a drought.
“Yes,” Ethyr said quickly.
“Good. Get dressed. Poyut will retrieve you shortly.” Yorith closed the door.
Ethyr watched it for a moment, his stomach sinking as he realized that Yorith had won, that he was giving the man exactly what he wanted.
Compliance. But he had won, long before this.
Ethyr would never be able to beat him, Yorith was simply proving that.
Ethyr had no choice but to play the game as he designed.
He sullenly got dressed in an outfit Gionan had put him in before and was taken to the temple.
Dessin acted like nothing had happened and they were simply carrying on exactly as they’d left off.
At least the topics held a glimmer of fascination, in that they were more interesting than absolute boredom.
“Ethyr,” Poyut whispered as they made the short walk from the temple back to the carriage.
“I can’t get you a meeting with Lyrian, but if you can convince Yorith to let you into the city with me, I can bring you to the administration forum.
It’s where Lyrian and all the officials hold office and counsel. ”
“If I can convince Yorith to let me?” Ethyr repeated in a mumble. “When he won’t even let me leave my room?”
“That can’t be forever,” Poyut reassured him. “If Yorith thinks you’re obedient he’ll be much more lenient, I’m sure.”
Ethyr stopped halfway to the carriage. Poyut looked at him in surprise, halting as well.
“Are you really not upset anymore?” he asked.
“I told you, I never was.”
“Don’t lie,” he said, harsher than he meant to. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean… clearly something was wrong.”
Poyut sighed as well, glancing over at the carriage driver looking their way.
“I wasn’t mad at you, Ethyr, you had every right to be mad at me.
Where I’m from, the only things you could call your own were your family and the clothes on your back.
I know what it’s like to lose everything you’ve ever had.
I felt terrible that I had let that happen. ”
“Really?” Ethyr asked, intrigued. “Where are you from?”
“Brackwood Moor. You won’t have heard of it, no one has.”
“Why did you come here?”
Poyut continued walking and Ethyr followed. She spoke without looking at him.
“It’s not like your village, Ethyr. It’s poor in every sense of the word.
No croplands to support it, no nearby market, or forest, or crafts to be known for, not much of anything.
There’s nothing to make of your life, nothing to stay around for but starvation.
” She opened the carriage door before turning to him.
“I joined the Guard for the hope of having a real life, and getting my brothers out of that place.” Though she kept her face steely, the shake of her voice betrayed her.
“Worked my way to a rank where I could support them, only to find out my family were all taken by disease just a few months before my promotion.”
Ethyr stared at her, speechless.
“So like I said, I know what it’s like. To lose everything. I couldn’t be mad at you.” She held out a hand. Ethyr slowly took it and stepped up into the carriage.
When they arrived back at the palace, he was surprised to see Yorith, Gionan, and two other attendants waiting for him outside the front doors.
“The gods have asked for you,” Yorith said as soon as he’d stopped in front of them.
Ethyr glanced over the attendants. “What? Tonight?”
“Yes.”
He was already exhausted. They’d always let him sleep in before seeing the gods, but now he’d been awake since early morning. He looked back to Yorith, remembering what Poyut had said. If Yorith thought he was obedient…
He dipped his head. “I suppose I must wash, then.”
“Indeed.” Yorith gestured and Gionan stepped forward to usher Ethyr into the palace.
He tried to rest his eyes during the wash, but they were as vigorous in cleaning him as always and it was difficult to get any rest at all.
He was given a quick meal, put in another ostentatious outfit, and then was on his way back to the temple after having just left.
For some reason the stares as he walked to the offering room were worse than when he was studying. He ate the petals Klara gave him, then didn’t bother trying to stay awake. As soon as she had shut the door, he curled up on the seat and let himself drift into sleep.
Quiet voices. Clinking of glass game pieces being placed. The barest touch of fingers caressing his hair. The warmth of a lap under his cheek.
He sat up with a start. Varuut moved her hand from his head and offered his disorientation a smile.
“Suppose that solves that dilemma,” Gnaeus said delicately. Catocus rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall.
“I told you he’d wake,” Ainder said. Ethyr blinked at them all. Well, not all. Kiaro wasn’t there.
“Of course he was going to,” Catocus said. “Varuut can’t keep her hands off him.”
“I didn’t wake him,” Varuut retorted. “I told you all to stop talking.” She scooped her finger under Ethyr’s chin and forced him to look at her. “Tired, my love? You can keep sleeping if you’d like.”
Ethyr swallowed, not sure which option was best to choose.
“You just want him for yourself,” Ainder accused.
Varuut pouted. “He is just so precious while he sleeps.”
“Are we going to humiliate Catocus or not?” Gallus spoke up from his lounging next to the table. Catocus glared.
“It is not humiliation,” Ithna corrected. “We’ve all performed before.”
“Not Catocus,” Ainder pointed out.
“Exactly. It’s about time he stepped up.”
Ethyr didn’t dare ask what they were talking about, but all eyes turned to him anyway.
“Come here,” Ithna beckoned. “Have some wine.”
He glanced at Varuut, but she did nothing, so he slowly stepped off the bench and sat by Ithna’s side. She passed him a goblet. “Do you have a favorite story?” she asked.
He blinked up at her, then around one more time. It felt like he’d been dropped into another world. Another another world. It was vastly different from their interactions before, when he had felt more like a doll than a companion.
“We’ve decided on a punishment,” Gallus explained, gleefully. “For his transgression last time. He will star in a play for you. So what would you like?”
Opening his mouth was a physical challenge. It seemed a risk to say anything at all. “The Farmer and the Hunter,” he said quietly.
“What’s that one about?” Langath asked. “Mortals come up with new stories every hour it seems, it’s hard to keep track.”