Chapter Seventeen
Winter in the capital city meant rain and a slight chill, and—very occasionally—a sheen of frost in the morning that melted before noon.
Ethyr wouldn’t have known it was winter if he hadn’t overheard servants talking about the Festival of Frost. That meant he had been here over four months.
Not just that knowledge, but also the thought of being here during the Festival, filled him with a cavernous ache.
It was one of two major festivals that his village went to the market to celebrate.
A huge fire was built in the center of town and tall candles lit every window and every face.
The Fool of the Feast, chosen among volunteers who pulled sticks, was tasked with finding ways to extinguish everyone’s candles throughout the night.
If anyone still had lit candles by the end, they were named King or Kings of the Feast and given the best cuts of the roast, as well as the choice of punishment the fool was to receive.
Most often it was to be thrown into a pig trough, or get a bucket of water over the head.
But if the fool was successful in his task, he would be the one to get the best cuts.
Because of the nature of such celebration, it was sometimes referred to as Kiaro’s Festival, and he was certainly the god most invoked on that night.
Two winters ago, Mikel had been the fool, a part which suited him well.
It was the kind of mischievous fun he thrived in.
Ethyr had felt rashly secure, confident Mikel would leave his candle alone.
He even told Mikel that when he became king he would give him a lenient punishment and share the reward.
Mikel swore quite seriously that he would never think of putting out his candle, followed immediately by plucking it from Ethyr’s hand and dunking it into the nearest mug of ale.
The owner of that mug was equally upset, but the fool was untouchable for the night, so all they could do was curse vehemently while Mikel scurried away laughing.
Ethyr couldn’t imagine how a city as populated as Mahyria could celebrate like that, though. When he asked Gionan about it, the man was surprised the whole commune gathered together.
“Though,” he acquiesced, “I suppose you only have a few dozen people to include.”
Ethyr didn’t bother telling him the commune, consisting of two villages and the market itself, was probably closer to three hundred.
In cities, Gionan explained, neighborhoods celebrated separately, having one fool for each street. In the palace, only the servants celebrated like that. It was too uncouth for anyone of importance to take part in. Instead, they’d have a civilized feast.
Ethyr knew that meant being painted, but even with warning he was unable to fend off Gionan the day of.
There were a few commands from Ethyr that the man obeyed without question; there were a great many more that he fervidly fought and often got his way.
Ethyr's appearance at important events was one of them.
So Ethyr let him dust his face with green, bronze, and pink and dress him in a green and gold outfit to match.
Upon arriving at the courtyard, he was surprised that there were no attendants.
Tables were set out with food to be picked manually by the party-goers.
It was, he learned, because the servants were celebrating; one of the two evenings a year they were allowed free reign over their own activities, thus forcing everyone to serve themselves.
Gionan left him alone at the edge of the courtyard, so he had to maneuver awkwardly around the crowd to reach a table.
This was difficult to do with everyone stopping him to give an exuberant greeting, which he tried to return in equal good spirits.
He supposed he was happy the officials of the city did not hate him the way the priests did.
Some were quite eager to carry on a conversation with him, but they never lasted long, as once they got past niceties it was obvious Ethyr had no concept of their lives or work and they had nothing in common to talk about.
He finally reached a table to pour himself a goblet of wine, then took a fluffy pastry to stand off in a corner, half-hidden by the luscious greenery. He had resolved himself to yet another night of standing bored and alone for hours when familiar broad shoulders blocked the light of a lamp.
“Your Divinity.” Lyrian gave a deep bow. He was one of the few who didn’t have a painted face, though Ethyr would have guessed as much, knowing the man. He was too dignified and sensible for such a thing.
“Lyrian!” he exclaimed, both happy and surprised, but at the man’s amused look he lowered his voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you didn’t come to palace celebrations.”
“I do not go to the inauguration feast,” he corrected. “But try as he might, Yorith cannot withhold me from every gathering. Even if I must suffer the humiliation of being patted down and disarmed.” He smiled wryly and Ethyr grinned.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized the vulnerability of them and his face flushed hot.
For once he was glad it was covered in colored dust. “I-I need to tell you something. I tried sending a message through—” He glanced around, lowering his voice.
“That guard, but Yorith had him dismissed.”
“Yes,” Lyrian said gravely. “That was a blow.”
“I heard Klara mention something about a trial,” Ethyr tried to talk as quietly as he could while still allowing Lyrian to hear. “I think Yorith is planning something—”
“Your Divinity. Guard Master.”
He turned in guilty surprise to Poyut. He hadn’t even seen her approach. She gave a bow that seemed more awkward and stiff than usual. “The High Priest has requested you meet him in his study,” she told Lyrian.
He raised his eyebrows, looking nonplussed by the request, but Ethyr’s heart dropped. Why would Yorith ask for him in the middle of a feast?
“Did he say why?” Ethyr asked Poyut, but she only kept her gaze averted and shook her head. He narrowed his eyes, chewing on his cheek, but Lyrian was already walking off. He followed and Poyut fell into step behind, apparently aware of the futility of trying to stop Ethyr from joining.
Yorith’s study was lit by a strong fire, though it was the last orange beams of sunset through the glass window that cast ominous shadows over everything. Yorith, as usual, stood waiting expectantly in the center of the room—confident as always that his orders would be unquestioningly followed.
“Thank you, Poyut,” he said as they entered, giving Ethyr and Lyrian a cursory glance instead of a greeting. He didn’t seem perturbed by Ethyr’s presence. “No, no, leave the door open.” She stopped from closing it and stepped aside, lowering her head deferentially.
“Sir,” Lyrian said with a small bend forward. “To what do we owe the honor of your summons?”
“Save your mendacious flattery,” Yorith said coolly, leveling a contemptuous gaze onto him.
“I am aware you have been using Ethyr against me. Did you really think you could outdo me with the help of an ignorant brat?” Ethyr bristled.
“Did you think I couldn’t possibly be aware of your egregious transgressions against me? ”
Lyrian stared back, mouth shut and lips stiff.
“Really, Lyrian, I would have thought you’d learned from your father’s mistakes. If nothing else, I had assumed you were at least smarter than your father to so severely underestimate me.”
Ethyr looked between them, waiting for Lyrian to say something, anything, but he remained tight-lipped. The man was always quick and forceful with his responses, his silence now made no sense—if anything, it only further proved his guilt.
“What proof do you have?” Ethyr demanded.
Yorith’s ire became almost amusement as he raised his eyebrows at him. “Proof?” he chuckled dryly. “I have no obligation to share it with you. But perhaps you’ll be mollified with the testimonies of three council members, a dozen soldiers, and, of course, the King’s Guard herself.”
Ethyr whipped around to where Poyut stood, head bowed and hands clasped behind her back.
“How could you?” he cried. “You promised you didn’t tell! You promised you weren’t working with him!” She didn’t lift her head.
“You don’t deny it then.”
He turned back to Yorith’s smug satisfaction.
“Good. Now that we have dispelled all question of fabrication, this can be dealt with. Poyut, take Lyrian’s badge of office, then fetch the front guards to arrest him.” Yorith smiled at Lyrian. “Unless you’d like to put up a fight and make a scene in the middle of everyone’s festivities?”
Lyrian gave no expression, not one of anger nor guilt. He met Yorith’s gaze with a steady coolness of his own. When Poyut stepped forward, he unpinned the bronze emblem of a hawk, the symbol of Catocus, from his tunic and dropped it into her palm.
She hesitated, looking from Lyrian to Ethyr. He met her gaze with a smoldering fury that made the concern in her eyes almost laughably illogical.
“I gave you an order,” Yorith said sharply. She straightened and gave a stiff nod before walking out of the room.
“You’re not going to do anything?” Ethyr asked Lyrian desperately. “You’re not going to argue?”
“I don’t see a point,” Lyrian said, eyes still locked on Yorith. “He’s made up his mind.”
Ethyr huffed in disbelief, struggling to comprehend that he was losing his one and only ally, and rejecting the possibility. He couldn’t let it happen, but he knew if Lyrian was helpless, he had no hope of successfully fending off Yorith either. But he had to try.
“What supposed offenses do you accuse him of?” he asked. “You can’t make these ridiculous, overarching claims and expect him to roll over and admit to everything.”