Chapter Twenty #2
He shut himself in and dropped to the floor, burying his face in his knees. Mikel was right, who was he anymore? The past few weeks had either been a non-stop flurry or a numb blur; it felt like he’d lost himself entirely in them. But all he wanted was to remain numb. Especially now.
Lyrian was his advisor. How was he supposed to face him again? How could he face anyone? He wanted to sink into the earth and die.
He didn’t know how long he sat there in a haze of horror and self-loathing, but a sharp knock on the door jolted him to his senses and to his feet.
“Who is it?” he asked, his attempt to cover his panic making it come out angry.
“Dinner, Your Divinity.”
He pressed a hand over his eyes. “Just… leave it by the door.”
By the silence that followed he assumed she had obeyed. He opened the door, glad to see no one there, and lifted the tray.
He shut the door with his hip and left the food on the vanity, then flopped onto the bed with a groan. He very seriously considered another escape attempt—because the previous one had gone so well—but ultimately he got up and ate the food with a mindless instinct.
He spent the rest of the day hiding. Being stuck in his room was as horrible as he remembered, even if it was now self-inflicted.
But he couldn’t stomach it for two whole days, so after breakfast the next morning, he made his way to the library.
The guards only gave him a nod of acknowledgment, so he took a lantern off the wall himself and went inside.
It was dark and cramped, and colder than he remembered.
Somehow it was comforting. He picked up the first book he saw and opened it, struggling to read the looping handwriting in the flickering lamplight.
A Study of Beasts and Their Habits.
Another read, Forgotten Words of the Poet.
He set it down and picked up a scroll.
Northlands Census of Populace and Assets, Taken in the Fifteenth Year of the Verusian Age.
Three years ago. He hung the lamp on the little hook embedded into the side of the bookcase and lifted the other scrolls until he found one labeled:
Northlands Census of Populace and Assets, Taken in the Eighteenth Year of the Kolian Age.
If he remembered correctly from his lessons, which he had little confidence of, that was twenty-one years ago. He unrolled the paper, straining to read what was now not only looping, but tiny.
He should have known it’d be the very last script at the very end of the scroll.
Linwood Village Occupancy: Households: 21, Land-Owning Adults: 43
Household of Tyria & Gevol: 5 people Land: 4 mestars Assets Value: 2 quios
Household of Jamyr & Lindus: 8 people Land: 4 mestars Assets Value: 1 quios 90 lytha
He scanned through the names, looking for Deian and Tebhen, though the form of them written were unfamiliar and he read them before comprehending it was what he was looking for.
Household of Tebhen & Deian: 2 people Land: 1 mestar Assets Value: 95 lytha
Two people.
It could have meant nothing. Maybe they’d gotten it incorrect.
Maybe he was getting the date wrong. But twenty or more years ago, according to the story he had always been told of his parents’ death, they should have definitely been alive and part of the household then.
He grabbed the next scroll, the seventeenth year of the Kolian Age, and checked that one, too.
It said the same. He took the next, and the next, going down the years, but the information never changed.
No, he must have been wrong. They wouldn’t lie to him. He was wrong. Mikel was wrong.
He leaned his forehead against the jut of the shelf and closed his eyes. Suddenly the cramped space was more suffocating than comforting. He dropped the scroll and strode out, sucking in deep breaths of air from the open corridor and still feeling nauseated.
“Ethyr!”
He startled, barely coming to in time to stop himself smacking full-force into Poyut. She gripped his arms and he blinked up at her, disoriented.
“What are you doing here?” he asked stupidly.
“What?” She furrowed her brow. “I’m looking for you. You weren’t in your room, or the gardens or courtyard.”
“Oh.”
“Are you okay? You look pale.” Her grip tightened on his arms. “Did someone say something to you?” she asked sharply.
“Huh?” He couldn’t meet her eyes. He shook his head. “No, I-I’m fine. Why do you need me?”
“Let’s go to your room and talk there.”
He pulled himself onto the bed, watching as Poyut glanced down the hall before closing the door tight. She didn’t sit beside him, pacing instead across his rug.
“There’s…” She exhaled, halting abruptly and pinching her nose. “There’s a rumor spreading through the palace that you’re sleeping with Lyrian.”
Ethyr’s shoulders tightened. He grit his teeth and balled the blanket in his fists, trying to keep his breath steady. So much for Satya not telling anyone.
The king who killed one advisor and fucked the other. His reputation was flawless.
“I’m trying to keep a lid on it, but it’s circulating even among the palace guards and I…” Poyut sighed with strained annoyance. “I don’t have the respect or fear that I need to control it. I can’t dismiss them all from service.”
She looked at him and he forced himself to meet her gaze and look as guiltless as possible.
“I’m so sorry, Ethyr. It’s unacceptable.”
He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “Is it?” he asked faintly. “I’m sure every king is the source of gossip. We heard it even in my village.”
“Not of this kind,” Poyut said grimly. “Not baseless, obscene accusations that undermine your character.”
He licked his lips. They were suddenly uncomfortably dry. “Baseless, of course.” He wondered if his voice sounded as distant to Poyut as it did to him. “I-I’m sure it’s only for crude entertainment. It’ll be forgotten in a few days.”
Poyut frowned at him.
“I have faith you’ll deal with it effectively,” he said. Surely she could hear how breathless he was?
“I’m trying. It would be helpful to know how this happened.” A chill ran down his spine. “Do you have any idea who might have begun such a rumor? Could it be Lyrian himself?”
“No,” Ethyr said quickly. From Poyut’s look, she was still in disbelief that he’d defend the man. “It wasn’t him. He wouldn’t. It ruins his reputation too, doesn’t it?”
Poyut sighed. “I… I suppose. It’s not… exactly the same.”
“How so?”
When she didn’t respond for a long few seconds, Ethyr continued. “Deal with it whatever way you need to. Just don’t involve Lyrian.”
Poyut pressed her lips together, but acquiesced with a dip of her head and left him alone.
He sank down onto the bed and closed his eyes, exhausted despite the day only just beginning.
Knowing every pair of eyes in the palace would be looking at him as a licentious murderer put the nail in the coffin of wanting to leave his room.
Once again he spent the day in there, standing on the balcony to watch the clouds ebb across the sky.