Chapter Fifteen #3
“Yorith is on the other side of the city for business. It’s given me the opportunity to speak to you without his interference.
” Lyrian pulled a small, rolled paper from his pocket and held it out.
Ethyr took it and opened it to one word: Sabatus.
He looked back up in confusion. Lyrian plucked it from his hand and went to a lantern on the wall, setting its edge alight.
He watched the flame eat across the paper until it was mostly ash, then dropped it and stomped it out.
He turned back to Ethyr’s bewilderment. “That is one of the guards here,” he told him. “He is loyal to me. If you get a message to him, he will get it to me. Nothing written. If Yorith finds out, he’ll be expunged from the palace, so you must not let it be discovered.”
“W-why?” Ethyr didn’t even know what kind of message he would send Lyrian.
“Yorith is planning something malicious, I just don’t know what yet. I’ll do everything I can to protect you, but I’ll need your cooperation. If you hear anything, or notice anything suspicious, let me know.”
“I will,” Ethyr said, more confidently. It was nice to have someone on his side, especially someone with Lyrian’s status and influence.
He couldn’t let that slip away. It gave him renewed hope that he could gain a semblance of independence, when he had almost given up on any chance of that. “Thank you.”
Lyrian offered a smile that tempered his fierce gaze to a comforting gentleness. “Of course, Your Divinity. I hope you take my words to heart. I know you have a fire inside of you, you just need to let it out.” He bowed, then strode out of the room.
Ethyr was still standing there when Gionan came back inside.
“What did Master Lyrian want to speak to you about?” he asked lightly.
“King stuff,” Ethyr said. He looked up from where his gaze had fixed onto the floor. “I’m done eating. Call the carriage to take me to the temple.”
Gionan dipped his head hesitantly. “I will do so, Your Divinity.”
They weren’t ready for the storm after all. The first crack of thunder made Dessin jump out of his slippers and the onslaught of rain hitting the roof turned his face up.
“There hasn’t been a thunderstorm here for years,” he marveled.
“Can I—” Ethyr stopped himself. He thought for a second, then stood from his desk. “I’m going outside to see.” He started out before Dessin could stop him.
“What? Wait—Your Divinity—” Dessin scrambled after him and as he strode past Poyut, she met his determined glance with confusion and followed too.
“Your Divinity, I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dessin pleaded as Ethyr walked unconcerned through the corridors. “Storms are dangerous. And you’ll get soaked, listen to how hard the rain is falling. It’s best to stay indoors, where it’s safe and dry…”
But Dessin did nothing to stop or slow him.
Ethyr walked straight out into the rain, letting it batter him soaking wet in seconds.
After endless dry, sunny days, feeling the sheets of rain hit him like soft rocks was exhilarating.
A tendril of lightning split the roiling gray clouds and a deafening crack of thunder rumbled the mountain itself, shaking it beneath his feet.
For the first time in months, he felt alive.
“Your Divinity,” Poyut called worriedly from the temple entrance. He turned to her and his grin stopped whatever her next words were.
“Poyut!” he shouted back, spreading his arms. The crash of rain drowned out a lot of sound. “Are we sure the wild gods are dead?” He raised his arms and spun around, laughing.
“Ethyr!” she tried again desperately. She sounded so exasperated that he gave in and jogged back into the temple. Dessin and Poyut stepped back, looking at him helplessly.
Soaked hair clung to his face and the silk clothing stuck flush to his skin. Water trickled off him in streams, drenching the hard floor.
“You’re going to get sick,” Poyut sighed.
He pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“I’ll get a drying cloth,” Dessin said, and hurried off.
Ethyr met Poyut’s examination with a smile. He knew he looked bedraggled and ridiculous, but that in itself was a gift. Everyone was so concerned with his appearance all the time, mocking it or admiring it or dictating it. He’d forgotten he didn’t have to look pristine and perfect at all times.
Poyut took the cloth from Dessin when he returned and rubbed Ethyr’s hair dry, then draped it over him, holding his shoulders and looking him up and down. She bit her lips together but it didn’t hide her smile.
“It’s dangerous to stand at the top of a mountain during a lightning storm,” she told him. “And now you’re shivering.”
Ethyr hugged his arms. The thin, slippery silk did nothing to keep his body heat in, and in the drafty shade of the temple it felt more chilly than warm for once. “It’s fine,” he told her, pulling the cloth tighter around himself. “We’re leaving soon, aren’t we?”
“In an hour.”
So Dessin got him another cloth and he spent the rest of the lesson wrapped up and drying off. The storm subsided to light rain, and when the carriage brought him back to the palace, he commanded a hot bath from the first servant he saw.
There were two attendants standing in the room as usual, ready to set upon him and scrub every orifice as soon as he stepped into the water.
Ethyr faced them, sucking in a deep breath to steel himself.
Ordering people around was quite different from making a statement and following through on it, and it wasn’t something he much liked doing in the first place.
But he had already tried, several times by then, asking them to leave, and it never worked.
“Get out,” he demanded sharply.
They glanced at each other uncertainly, but didn’t move. Ethyr summoned every ounce of confidence he had within him, remembering Lyrian’s words.
“I gave you an order,” he said, voice unwavering despite the tremor in his chest. “Leave. Now.”
To his immense surprise—and relief—they dipped into bows and scurried out.
He sank into the heated water with a sigh, submerging up to his chin. Being alone in the steamy room without his hair and skin being scrubbed to death was quite nice.
He was king. Whatever small glimmer of hope he had that it was all a temporary nightmare and he’d be returned home soon had to be set aside.
If he wanted to survive, he’d have to accept the situation.
He knew he couldn’t disobey Yorith, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get what he wanted.
He reminded himself of Lyrian’s words: the gods had put him here. Everyone else was here to serve him.
He put on the warm robe the attendants had left behind and let the two guards outside the bath follow him all the way down to the kitchens.
He had never done more than glance inside, but he stepped past the entrance now and was gratified when all the work drifted to a stop as his presence was noticed.
“In the future,” he told the room, “I want dark bread with my meals.”