Chapter Eighteen #2
“Oh.” Had Yorith done the same thing, early in the morning? Settled into a chair by the fire to read letters and documents? Even he must have had moments where he looked serene, mundane.
“Your Divinity,” Klara said hesitantly, pulling Ethyr from his thoughts and mindless staring. “Forgive me, but… what did you come here for?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t tell Klara the truth: that he didn’t know. He walked slowly into the room, stopping by the spot where Yorith had last lain. He hated that there was nothing there, no disturbance or residue, like nothing at all had happened.
“You don’t seem to hate me,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone either hates or fears me now. Or,” he added with a dry laugh, “pities me.” Klara didn’t reply. After a long silence he looked over to see her watching him with a tensely neutral face. “Or maybe you do hate me,” he corrected.
“No, Your Divinity,” she said quietly. “I do not hate you. But I cannot understand why you protect that man.”
“Lyrian?” Ethyr shook his head, not sure if he was amused or exasperated. “What has he done that’s so bad? The only thing anyone can tell me is an unproven theory that he plotted to kill Yorith, and that he takes his responsibility to the law seriously. Which, quite frankly, seems contradictory.”
“Unproven?” Klara scoffed. “Is the fact that Lyrian did murder him not proof enough?”
“Lyrian didn’t kill him,” Ethyr said firmly.
Klara dropped her head to the side, looking at him with exasperation.
He pressed his lips together and looked away.
He couldn’t say anything that would incriminate Lyrian, but he had been there, he had seen that it was a result of impulse and defense. Defense of him.
“It was all but proven, anyway,” she continued. “Yorith had gathered everything he needed. He just didn’t get the chance to present it to the council.”
“Then why don’t you?”
“Because I don’t know everything. No one does. And with him gone, it is unlikely the witnesses he found will come forward now.”
“Sounds like he made up a narrative to fit his presumptions,” Ethyr said airily.
“You—” Klara grit her teeth to stop anything else from coming out, but as well as she could hold back her words, she couldn’t hide her anger.
She turned sharply away, fists balled at her sides, and exhaled a long, heavy breath.
“You are the one making assumptions,” she said stiffly.
“You didn’t know him. He would never do that. ”
And yet, he seemed like exactly the kind of person who would: someone who hated being wrong or not in control.
The knowledge Ethyr had of Yorith was from a few months of impressions and the words of others, but when those all contradicted each other, the only thing he could trust was his own experience.
“Why would Lyrian want to kill Yorith anyway?” he asked.
“Everyone knows he wants to be the king’s advisor. Lyrian wants power, and he was jealous that Yorith had more than him.”
“Yorith is much older than Lyrian—if he wanted his position, he probably just had to wait a few years,” Ethyr pointed out. “Why plan something so drastic and risky?”
Klara sighed and sank into the chair, pressing her palms to her face.
“Eth—Your Divinity,” she said firmly. “You have been here but a few months and are thrown now into the middle of a decades-long battle that you know nothing about, between people you know nothing about. Life is not simple and straightforward here. Decisions are made by selfish ambition and resentment stemming from grudges that span generations. Just because I, or anyone, doesn’t have satisfactory answers to your questions, doesn’t mean we’re wrong. ”
She stayed leaning on her knees, head in her hands. She always appeared so put-together and certain, the exhaustion and weariness now didn’t fit her bones. An ember in the fireplace popped and spat sparks into the silence.
“Was Yorith your friend?” Ethyr asked quietly.
Klara huffed humorlessly. When she sat up, her eyes glistened. “Maybe. It seems strange to call him that, but… I suppose after being High and Head Priest for so long together, we were.”
“But you liked him,” Ethyr ventured.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I looked up to him from a young age. If you knew him then, Ethyr, you wouldn’t say such outrageous things.
He was the most kind and selfless out of all of us.
Years of fighting in politics will turn anyone hard and bitter.
But I know his foundation never changed.
” Her breath hitched and she buried her face again.
Ethyr stayed quiet. When she did not look up again, he slipped out of the room.
It was a restless night, followed by a frantic morning. Gionan woke him early with a tray of food and stood impatiently waiting for him to eat. Then he was dragged to the wash room to be scrubbed raw, followed by a garment that Ethyr had never seen before.
“Did Edora make this?” he asked, arms lifted for Gionan to neatly wrap his waist with cloth.
“She’s worked nonstop to make it fit you,” the man said.
“Why?”
Gionan did not pause his work. “All council members are required to be in their office uniform for a forum. This is the king’s.”
Ethyr glanced down at it again. It was more conservative and subdued than anything else he had worn: a gold tunic with wide sleeves and a longer skirt than usual brushing his ankles.
The wide strip of cloth wrapping his waist was pure white, each layer meticulously laid to form almost a pattern, and tied at the front with a crisp, pristine bow, the middle of which was pinned with a golden butterfly brooch.
It was of course accompanied by his crown circlet.
If he had been allowed into council meetings from the start, they wouldn’t have had to frantically rush to tailor the appropriate attire. But Ethyr kept the bitter thought to himself. Gionan had barely finished tying his sandals before herding him out the door.
The carriage waited in the splendor of sunrise, framed yellow in a backdrop of pale blue and pink.
Ethyr paused, but his awe was interrupted by Gionan hurrying him forward.
Poyut stood per usual beside the open door, looking rather tired and worried herself.
Ethyr avoided her outstretched hand, stepping up into the carriage on his own.
He habitually took the seat further from the driver, the one he’d always taken across from Yorith.
When Poyut closed the door, it took him a long moment to remember to reach over and hook the latch.
By the time he remembered Yorith had always rapped the knocker to tell the driver to move, the carriage strained forward on its own, evidently having given up waiting for him.
The road from the palace to the forum was long, but direct, and Ethyr didn’t get much time to admire the sun spreading its light over the city before the carriage stopped.
There were other carriages, some pulled to the side to wait, some with people still getting out.
A full guard entourage circled the area, though there were no civilians even attempting to encroach.
When Ethyr approached the washed steps leading up to the building, those around him bowed and stepped out of his way.
He withheld his reflex to pause awkwardly, continuing decisively forward with Poyut striding close behind.
It was easy enough to know where to go once inside; following the trickle of people and noise led him to a room lit by wide windows and filled with a circle of individual podiums. It presented Ethyr with his first problem.
Only a few people were standing at them, most others mingling around the edges and talking.
He didn’t know whether there was a specific podium he should be at, but he also wasn’t confident enough to join a conversation.
From the snippets he could pick up, they were about policies or economics or ‘social issues’, topics even further from his knowledge than anything priests talked about.
He stood off to the side, prepared to wait, when he saw Lyrian heading towards him.
The man was back in his Master of the Guard uniform, bronze hawk pinned at the neck of his crimson tunic.
It suited him. Whatever anyone else said, Lyrian was made for the role of Master Guard. He gave Ethyr a deep bow.
“Your Divinity,” he greeted as he straightened. “I am pleased you have come. Do you know your decision yet?”
Ethyr glanced at Poyut. She watched Lyrian with the cool neutrality of a cat watching a hawk, aware of the danger but confident enough in its own abilities not to be scared. Lyrian, like all the councilors, did a magnificent job of pretending Poyut didn’t exist.
“I would like to hear what the whole council has to say before I reach any hard conclusion,” Ethyr told him.
He raised his eyebrows and dipped his chin. “A rational course of action, Your Divinity.”
Ethyr studied him a moment. He didn’t look concerned or upset that he hadn’t been definitively named as his choice.
“Is there a certain place I must stand during the meeting?” he asked.
Lyrian glanced at the circle. “Not particularly. You can stand at any podium. Since you are present, it is your initiative to begin the meeting, which you can do by standing at whichever one you choose.”
Ethyr hummed, though underneath the buzz of constant conversation, he doubted it was audible.
From the start, Lyrian had always answered his questions with patience far from patronizing and detail that was almost anticipatory, as though he knew what follow up questions Ethyr might have.
If ambition really was his only crime, he would be a fantastic advisor.
“Whose initiative would it be if I wasn’t here?”