Chapter Fifteen #2
Klara had moved on before he could say anything else.
He watched her place herself beside Yorith, smiling and offering him half an orange.
He took it with a gracious nod and almost smiled back.
Whatever he said to her drew her into the conversation and the other priest listened seriously to what she said in return.
Ethyr sighed, absently chose a handful of berries and a dumpling full of pork, and planted himself by the window. The slight coolness of evening it offered was a nice reprieve from the stuffy, congested room.
He ate slowly and ignored the occasional glances his way, pretending it wasn’t an obvious indication that he was being talked about.
He tried to find distraction in his nibbling.
Yorith seemed to be in his element, shifting from one group of priests to another, all of whom were delighted to have him join them.
He couldn’t help overhear one priest jovially comment, “I think you’ve done a fine job with him, Yor,” and Yorith’s good-natured, “If you’re going to lie, you should at least make it believable,” in return.
Ethyr set his mouth in a line and abandoned his refreshing spot to get farther away.
The older priests all stuck together at one end of the room, watching the younger flood the rest of it and take most of the food.
Some of the older priests were playing music for the feast, but there was no dancing.
The others appeared to be having a good time regardless, with conversations often bursting into laughter.
Ethyr approached a group that seemed the most sensible. He could hear them talking about music, which he knew very little about, but it was better than lewd jokes or quiet gossiping about him.
They all stopped talking and looked at him when he stepped up. He paused, raising his shoulders instinctively before forcing them back down.
“Good evening,” he greeted awkwardly. Growing up where he had always known everyone, he wasn’t sure how to meet new people.
Yorith hadn’t bothered introducing him. “Does every priest know how to play an instrument?” He decided starting with an innocuous question was a good plan.
The group looked around at each other before one answered.
“We all play multiple instruments,” she said curtly, as though offended he could possibly imply anything else. “Though skill no longer seems to make a difference.”
He blinked. “A difference in what?”
“In whether the gods will choose you.” She spoke coldly, turning away from him as she said it. Regret shivered up Ethyr’s spine.
“All you need now is a pretty face covered in dirt, apparently,” another remarked, which got the rest of the group to snicker. Ethyr’s shoulders stiffened.
“Sorry to bother you,” he muttered, slinking off and trying not to hear what was tittered as he left. He sought out Yorith, who was talking to another old priest about ‘economic stagnation,’ whatever that was.
“Are we leaving soon?” he interrupted.
Yorith looked him over, refreshingly placid instead of annoyed. “I thought you were making friends.”
Ethyr glanced back at the ‘friends’ still talking amongst themselves. “Not exactly.”
“Well you should try. You could learn a lot from these priests.”
He clenched his jaw to stop his face from scrunching up. “Can’t I wait outside with Poyut?”
“Absolutely not,” Yorith sniffed. “This whole feast is for you, remember? I thought you liked being the center of attention.”
No amount of willpower could hold back Ethyr’s scowl then. “Really? Seems like it’s more for you.”
The other priest chuckled, which somehow tempered the scathing response Ethyr detected on Yorith’s tongue.
Yorith turned to the man, eyebrows raised.
“Are you laughing at my expense, Harus?” The words that Ethyr expected to come out biting and cold were jovial and good-natured instead.
For a moment, Ethyr saw Yorith as one of the gentle, patient elders of his village, willing to part with pride if it put a smile on a young face.
Then he remembered that he was standing beside the most haughty, power-grabbing old man he’d ever met.
“To imagine,” Harus said lightly, “diligent, book-faced Yorith hosting a party for himself. It’s about time, honestly.”
Yorith smiled—a real smile, accompanied by a soft breath—and shook his head. “I had no need to concoct any parties, you and Galeia held plenty enough.”
“Not enough,” Harus disagreed. “Head Priest Sanius was such a miser.”
“You managed to break a torso-sized hole in the atrium’s wall,” Yorith said, eyebrows raised. “Of course he was going to snuff out what he could of your disastrous plots.”
Harus rolled his eyes. “He’s not alive to favor you now, Yor, you don’t need to kiss up to him.”
Yorith leveled Harus with an unamused look before launching into a different topic.
Ethyr wished they would continue the previous line of conversation, because it was quite enlightening, and honestly a lot more interesting than anything else he’d heard bouncing around the room.
But instead the priests returned to some complex conversation about taxes that he could barely follow.
Resigned to his fate, Ethyr got a drink and returned to the window to wait out the torture.
“Good news, Your Divinity!”
Ethyr woke with a jolt and sat up, mussing his hair. He squinted at Gionan as the man cheerfully bustled in and started going through his chests.
“Yorith said you can go back to having lessons at the temple.”
“Yay,” Ethyr sighed. Gionan didn’t seem concerned about his lack of enthusiasm. He held up a tunic thoughtfully before shaking his head and laying it aside to continue digging.
Ethyr stretched his arms up and back, flopping onto his pillows again.
He was so tired. He was tired of lessons, he was tired of doing nothing all day, he was tired of being tired.
He had always thought palace life, and especially the lives of kings, would have been glamorous and exciting.
But it was mundane. Mundane and boring and repetitive.
He didn’t know how long he could continue before losing his sanity.
“Up, up!” Gionan incited, patting his blanketed legs, so Ethyr rolled out of bed and let himself be dressed and led to the dining room for breakfast.
He stared out the large window as he munched on nuts and fruit.
At least the weather was different; the sky was dark with clouds and he could hardly see the garden below.
The open wall offered a light breeze, a reprieve from the stuffy humidity that had hung over everything the past two days. It meant a storm was coming.
Storms were the bane of his village’s existence, second only to blizzards.
Here, where even the roofs were built of solid stone and there were no crops to worry about, it was a little exciting.
Anything other than pleasant blue skies day in and day out was exciting.
Though Ethyr wondered if anyone in the palace knew, as they went about without a care or hint of preparation.
All the windows seemed a hazard to leave uncovered when wind and rain picked up.
Heavy steps into the room drew his attention from the weather and he startled to see Lyrian walking through the doorway. He scrambled to his feet, forgetting that he didn’t owe the man any reverence.
“Guard Master,” Gionan greeted, bowing his head low. The other attendant standing by, waiting for Ethyr to finish eating, did the same.
“Leave us,” Lyrian ordered.
Ethyr’s eyes darted between Lyrian and the attendants. They looked just as taken aback, but after a few seconds of surprise, they dipped low again and slipped out of the room, Gionan casting Ethyr an unreadable glance.
Ethyr gawked. “How did you do that?” The attendants had always been inescapable. Nothing he said or did got them off his tail.
Lyrian looked over, calmly tweaking the fingers of his leather gloves one at a time until he slipped them off. “Do what?” Under that unyielding brown gaze, Ethyr found himself feeling inferior. He tried not to shrink.
“Get them to leave,” he murmured.
Lyrian’s lips quirked, and Ethyr was reminded again of how similar the man looked to Mikel. How many smirks had Mikel directed at him over the years? Too many to count. He was glad Lyrian could not hear how fiercely his heart beat against his chest.
“It’s about confidence, Your Divinity,” he said. “If you give orders with the unwavering belief that they will be followed, those beneath you will have no choice.”
“I don’t know that I can do that,” Ethyr sighed.
“Of course you can.” Lyrian tucked the gloves into his leather belt. “Yorith has done quite a number on you, hasn’t he? Where’s that feisty boy who marched into my office weeks ago?”
Ethyr's cheeks prickled with heat that he hoped wasn’t visible.
“That’s your problem, Your Divinity,” Lyrian continued. “You are too focused on fighting back against Yorith, when you should be gaining the respect and obedience of those below you. You actually have a chance of getting them on your side.”
“I don’t belong here,” Ethyr reminded him. “Everyone knows that.”
“No. Everyone thinks that because you think it. You do belong here, Your Divinity; you were placed here by the gods and that gives you more of a right to be here than anyone else.”
The words, spoken so surely, bloomed in his chest.
“You’re the king, Ethyr,” Lyrian continued forcefully.
“Everyone in the palace is here to serve you, not the other way around. Don’t forget that.
” He looked like he was waiting for a response, but he had stopped Ethyr’s words on his tongue.
Lyrian made it sound so easy, but he could not dream of being as confident and elegant as that.
He shook his head with a sudden start. “Wait—why—how—are you here?”