Chapter Twenty-Four
Ethyr stared out the dining room window, chin in hand, absently pushing food around his plate. The morning’s storm had passed, leaving dark clouds scattered across the sky, framed in gold and leaking rays of sunlight.
He sensed the presence more than he heard it, and he glanced over to see Lyrian standing in the doorway. He dropped his fork and scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. How could a man of such stature move so quietly?
“What are you doing here?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt. He’d burnt the letter Kiaro had stolen from Jessif, but he had no idea whether Lyrian knew it was missing or not, or whether he’d suspect him.
Lyrian stepped closer and Ethyr stiffened, forcing himself not to back up and to meet Lyrian’s gaze with a modicum of confidence.
“Former King Verusias has invited you to his estate.” He held out a scroll. Ethyr took it slowly and pulled it open, neck pricking. It was much shorter than Lyrian’s.
To the Divine King,
It would be my honor to host Your Divinity at my residence. Please come at your leisure, as I am quite at mine.
I heard Klara is the new High Priest, do give her my congratulations. If she’s noticed the absence of the book Come Hither, All Things—you can tell her yes, I took it when I left. If you visit, I shall give it to you to return. You can assure her it is in the exact same condition.
I look forward to meeting Your Divinity and hearing about palace events that I’ve missed out on.
Awaiting your arrival,
Divine Verusias
Eighteenth.Thirteen in the First Year of the Ethyrian Age
Verusias’s handwriting was the same elegant, looping script of all the priests and it took a while for Ethyr to decipher it. When he did, he looked up at Lyrian, who raised his eyebrows.
“Why is he inviting me…?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Lyrian asked. “Naturally he’d want to meet his successor.”
“I guess,” Ethyr mumbled, looking the scroll over again. Why now? Based on the last sentence, perhaps he’d heard of all the gossip and wanted a first-hand account.
“Do you think you will go?” When Ethyr didn’t reply, Lyrian continued cavalierly. “Verusias was king for nearly two decades. Perhaps you could learn some valuable tips from him.”
Ethyr glanced up again. It was so hard to read Lyrian, he didn’t know why he tried.
And, per usual, the man was right. The previous kings were the only other people who knew the gods with the same intimacy.
Perhaps Ethyr could learn more about them, as they certainly gave little enough information about themselves.
And having been king for so long, Verusias may have had a better understanding of the politics and responsibilities which Ethyr was sorely lacking.
In fact, it was hard to think of a reason not to go.
He was more of a hindrance than a help in the palace and in Malor’s plans.
“Yes,” he said. “I think I will go.”
Verusias lived south of Mahyria, in the Walklands. In the north, swamps took up most of the terrain, and croplands were scattered in patches around them. Where there weren’t marshes or crops, there were clusters of trees and fields of tall, wild grasses.
The Walklands, perhaps predictably, were significantly more cultivated and walkable than the north.
Huge swaths of land were filled with methodically plotted crops, planted in precise squares and leaving clean, flat paths between them.
Any ground absent of crops were either brown patches of cropland lying fallow, or grassy surface that was flat and solid enough for the entire carriage to roll over without a hint of trouble.
That was rarely needed, however, because the roads, while not paved like in the cities, were meticulously kept. In fact, they passed a crew of workers taking up the road to fill in holes and pat down the dirt—hence why the carriage ventured onto the grass in the first place.
Ethyr stared out the window for most of the day-long trip. He had heard about the Walklands from the few travelers who made it as far north as his commune, but seeing it was a completely different matter. It was as foreign as it had always sounded.
They did not pass a commune market for the entire day; Ethyr couldn’t determine if there were communes at all.
Unlike the villages of mismatched stone huts Ethyr was familiar with, the buildings here were well spaced out and constructed with beautiful, uniform stones or even occasionally—to his shock—wood.
Which meant they were either very, very old, or belonged to someone very, very rich, because forests had been missing from the south lands for centuries.
Even up north, wood was used sparingly, reserved mostly for fuel.
All of this Ethyr sorely wished he could talk to Poyut about and ask questions, but she rode outside on her horse.
Even if the seat opposite him wasn’t taken up by a small chest of his clothing, she refused to ride in the carriage with him, something about security risk and optimal efficiency.
He didn’t know, he just missed her company.
They left in the morning, and Ethyr managed to stay up past nightfall, sightseeing by the light of a fat moon. Eventually he passed out from exhaustion and the lull of smooth travel over well-groomed roads.
He woke to a rap on the door and shot upright, disoriented for a few seconds as he looked around the tiny sun-filled compartment and recalled where he was.
“Your Divinity,” Poyut said, as strong as always, but Ethyr could tell she was holding back fatigue. Unlike his privileged situation, she’d had to ride a horse all night. “We have arrived.”
He rubbed sleep from his eyes and unlocked the carriage door, letting it swing open, and Poyut stepped aside with an offer of her hand.
Ethyr hadn’t known what to expect of a past king’s estate, or any estate. He had thought it would look like a mini version of the palace, the same way Malor’s house had. It was nowhere close.
The main house, made of the same manicured stone as many southern homes, appeared to only have one floor, but that floor spread out across an area nearly the same width of the palace.
This in itself was impressive, but there were other buildings scattered across the grounds as well—none quite so large, but all together certainly adding up to an even larger surface area than the palace.
Gorgeous gardens framed the front of the estate with vibrant greenery and colorful flowers, and behind the main building Ethyr caught glimpses of what Poyut had once described as a wine vineyard on one side, and an orchard of fruit trees on the other.
Attendants who had spotted their arrival—not difficult, as the land was so flat they could be seen coming long before they reached the entrance—were standing outside the door waiting.
Their uniform was different from the palace attendants, but Ethyr could recognize them immediately from their stiff stances and overly polite gestures.
As soon as his feet were on the ground, the four of them gave deep bows. One woman rose first and stepped forward.
“Your Divinity, we welcome the honor of your presence. Master Verusias will be most pleased to know you’ve arrived safe and well.
Please follow me.” As she walked past the other attendants, she made a gesture and they hurried to the carriage to take out Ethyr’s chest and lead the driver to the stable.
Poyut walked behind Ethyr, as usual, and the second guard she had chosen to accompany them fell into step a little farther away.
The floors were a soft, sanded stone that was gentler under the soles of Ethyr’s sandals than the palace stone.
The walls’ elegant, even stonework from outside was covered with plaster on the inside, and painted with the same looping, braided, colorful patterns as at the palace, vibrant reds and blues and greens everywhere one looked.
The attendant brought them to a room that was like a mini version of the palace sun room, except, somehow, even more extravagant, and it captivated Ethyr immediately.
The walls were lined with climbing plants, and exotic flowers bloomed from pots throughout the room.
Water poured from decorative spouts popping out of the wall between the plants, splashing with delicate burbles into small fountain dishes on the ground below them.
The open rooftop let in copious amounts of light and offered a view of the blue sky and wandering clouds.
He wished the sun room in the palace was as verdant and full of life.
There was one reclining sofa in the middle of it all, and lounging across it with carefree ease was, without a doubt, Verusias. He certainly wasn’t the muscular man sitting on one end, a brown arm stretched across the back of the seat with the lounging man’s slender legs tossed over his lap.
Verusias, though mostly horizontal, was lazily sketching what appeared to be his view of the side of the man’s face.
He was paler than Ethyr, though lacking the freckles that often accompanied pale skin, and his light brown hair was straighter, longer, and braided into an elaborate bun at the nape of his neck.
“Divine Verusias,” the attendant said, and his attention pulled to the entrance. She gave another deep bow. “Divine Ethyr has graced the estate with a visit.”
Verusias sat up, eyes passing over Ethyr as a grin spread across his face.
“Why!” he exclaimed, swinging his legs off his companion to sit properly. “The murderous peasant-king himself!”
Ethyr stiffened. Poyut’s hand went to the hilt of her sword.
The man beside Verusias swiped the scabbard that had been propped against the side of the sofa, standing and yanking the blade a few degrees from its casing.
Verusias laughed, the sound as light and bubbling as the water fountains, and popped to his feet, leaning into the man’s back and hugging an arm over his shoulders.