Chapter Seventeen #3
“That was an order from your king,” he interrupted sharply. Gionan stared at him, then turned with tired resignation and started down the corridor.
Poyut was in the study. Ethyr’s eyes went immediately, instinctively, to where Yorith had lain, but he was gone. The blood had been cleaned so that not even a drop was left to acknowledge what had happened there. It didn’t change how clearly Ethyr could see it in his mind.
Klara was seated at the priest’s desk, frantically scratching out words onto paper. Her pen wasn’t covered in blood despite Ethyr briefly, absurdly, expecting it to be.
“Ethyr?”
Poyut’s voice widened the black tunnel that had become his vision.
She stood beside Klara, leaning her palms on the desk.
Two guards stood in front of it, waiting patiently for orders.
Their disrespect and hostility toward the peasant-king’s guard had vanished—easily, it seemed, so eager they were for someone to take charge.
“He asked to see you,” Gionan told her flatly, and excused himself with a dip of his head.
She straightened and spoke steadily to the waiting guards. “When Head Priest Klara is finished, take it to Justice Malvia.” She hurried over to Ethyr, pulling him into the hall. “What are you doing here?”
“What happened to Lyrian?”
Her expression darkened. “Given that he seemingly committed no crime, we sent him home.”
“Will he come back?”
“Without a doubt,” she muttered. “But none of that matters right now. You’re better off staying in your room until this has settled down.”
He frowned. “What’s going to happen now?”
“He was the king’s advisor for almost fifty years,” she said quietly.
He lowered his gaze. “And the High Priest for even longer. There’ll be city-wide commemoration and mourning.
Klara suggested we give everyone at least a week.
Then there’ll be a council meeting to determine the new order of things.
Technically the king chooses a new High Priest, but traditionally it is the Head Priest who is chosen anyway, so that’s not something you need to worry about.
Klara is ready and willing to take the role. ”
Ethyr sighed. “So Klara will be my new puppet master?”
“Not… necessarily,” Poyut admitted reluctantly. “The council votes on who becomes the new advisor.”
“So it doesn’t have to be the High Priest?”
“No.”
“Lyrian made it sound like Yorith manipulated his way into the position.”
Poyut closed her eyes and pinched her nose. “You shouldn’t pay attention to anything he says.”
“Doesn’t the king get a vote?” She went quiet, an uneasy flicker crossing her face. “Poyut?” Ethyr prodded. “If it’s the person dictating my life, shouldn’t I have a say in who it is?”
“Yes,” she acquiesced. “You get a say.”
“So I should be at that council meeting.”
“Yes.”
Ethyr nodded, satisfied. “Tell the kitchen to bring my breakfast to the courtyard. I’ll be spending the morning there.” He walked off without waiting to hear if she had any protest.
The next few days went by in a slow blur.
Ethyr felt like the calm root in the middle of a storm, sitting idly by while everyone else rushed frantically around him.
It did quiet down a little, after Poyut and the guards managed to clear the grounds of all civilians and keep them out.
The rest of the palace continued in their frenzy.
Ethyr never could figure out whether their looks to him were anger or fascination or trepidation.
He didn’t care for any of it, so he spent a lot of time in the gardens away from prying eyes.
He was on his way inside from one such excursion when a heated argument by the road drew his attention. Three guards were standing in front of Lyrian, ignoring his demands to enter the palace and telling him to leave.
“What’s this?” Ethyr's voice silenced the fight.
“Ah,” Lyrian said, almost triumphantly. “Your Divinity, I wanted to speak to you, but I was accosted by these fools.”
“Your Divinity,” a guard said nervously. “Poyut and Klara made it very clear we are not to allow the Guard Master inside.”
“Then don’t,” Ethyr said, waving Lyrian over.
“We’ll speak outside. Go back to your posts.
” They looked at each other uncertainly, but Lyrian had already slid past to take up Ethyr’s offer.
He led the man to the side garden, where there was the least amount of visibility from the palace.
He looked strange without his uniform, wearing a simple yellow tunic over red britches, though the silk fabric would not give any leniency into thinking it was humble attire.
“Would you like to sit?” Ethyr gestured to the iron-wrought bench, shaded under a lattice awning turned solid with climbing vines and leaves.
“I didn’t think there were seats in the palace gardens,” Lyrian commented, reaching up to feel a leaf.
“I had some put in so I can spend more time out here.” It was the only place he felt remotely at home. Ethyr sat instead, which incited Lyrian to follow.
“Your Divinity,” Lyrian said appraisingly, looking him up and down. “You’ve come into the role quite well.”
Ethyr looked away, studying the clouds. “I don’t see how I have a choice.”
“It is how one faces the inevitable that truly speaks to their character.”
He looked back at the man, whose eyes hadn’t moved off him, and failed to suppress the heat rising to his face. “You said you wanted to talk to me,” he said curtly. “So talk.”
Lyrian’s eyebrows flicked up, though he quickly tempered his expression. “I cannot blame you for being angry with me,” he conceded. “But I hope you will soon realize I did what I needed to do.”
“Poyut said you were plotting to kill Yorith all along,” Ethyr said brusquely. “That Yorith never had any plans to hurt you.”
Lyrian laughed, loud and boisterous. “Poyut said that? So she has turned you against me, I’m not surprised. Did she tell you why Yorith chose her to be your guard?”
Ethyr’s resolve faltered. “She said she had no idea why she was chosen.”
“She showed promise in the Walklands. Her captain recommended her for promotion, so I gave her a spot in the cavalry. I realized that what her captain had mistaken as initiative was in reality a stubborn brashness.”
Ethyr stared at his lap. “So what happened?”
“A servant girl stole her mistress’s jewelry, and by the time we caught her had already hawked most of the goods and spent the money.
She did all this knowing her masters had fallen on hard times and the master of the house was fatally sick.
That is likely what gave her the opportunity.
People who take advantage of the weak and defenseless are the most rotten creatures to walk the earth. ”
Ethyr squeezed his hands together, remembering the men who had grabbed him on the road, eager to take him for every value he had—and not just money.
“How cruel of her,” he whispered.
“Yes, cruel indeed. But when ordered to bring her to the forum for justice, Poyut refused, and even helped the girl escape the city. I kicked Poyut from the force but Yorith snapped her up immediately after. He was likely pleased she was so willing to disobey me. He filled the palace with people turned against me.”
Ethyr swallowed, trying to combat the unease slithering up his spine and lifting his hair. Why wouldn’t Poyut have told him that? Unless she knew she was in the wrong for it, and how suspicious it was.
“Well,” Lyrian concluded, “I’m sure she makes a wonderful King’s Guard. I have no ill-will towards her, even if she clearly does towards me. I’ve come to see if you have considered my offer.”
Ethyr's thoughts pulled back to the present moment and he looked up at him. “Offer?” he asked, confused.
“To help you. Advise you.”
“You want to be made advisor,” Ethyr realized. “I was considering voting for you… but what about the other council members? Do you have their votes?” Lyrian was looking at him strangely. “What?”
“The council votes are near meaningless, Your Divinity. The king chooses his advisor—he gets the final and official determination. Of course, the king often follows the council majority, as priests are not exactly well-versed in government happenings. And since all the past kings were priests, they were more than happy to keep Yorith as advisor. When you were made king, he convinced the council there was no point in allowing you to choose, that it was common sense he remain your advisor, as he has held the role for so many decades now.”
“I could have chosen?” Ethyr’s surprise spoiled quickly to annoyance.
He shouldn’t have been surprised anyway, knowing everything Yorith had skipped over.
But mostly, he couldn’t believe Poyut hadn’t told him.
She’d made it sound like the whole council chose—that, per usual, he’d get hardly a say at all.
But why would she keep it from him? She always insisted so adamantly that she was on his side. He felt sick.
“Your Divinity?”
He stood. “Leave. I have a lot to think about.”
“Of course.” Lyrian stood to bow. “If you ever need to talk, or need anything at all, I spend most of my day in the forum. I understand you have a tough decision ahead of you; you shouldn’t suffer over it alone.”
When he had walked off, Ethyr sank back onto the seat, fingers gripping the sides. He couldn’t rip his eyes from the stone path as his mind turned over itself in time with the nauseating churn of his stomach.