Chapter Twenty-Five
They made much faster time racing over the grass instead of relying on the roads and slow carriage.
Still, no matter how well-rested her gelding was from the past few days, he was a guard horse, not a race horse, and they had to let him drop to a walk every few minutes and guzzle water from whatever farm they passed, with a lytha tossed to the farmer.
They made it to Mahyria with dusk taking hold. Poyut pushed their poor mount up the ascending streets, climbing with strained exhaustion to the top of the mountain where, finally, he came to a dead stop in front of the palace doors, sweating and heaving.
Poyut dismounted and pulled Ethyr down, then gestured at one of the door guards to come forward. “Take my horse to the stable and get him—” She did a double take. “Who are you?”
The guard dipped her head. “Varia of Tunyr. Palace guard. The Guard Master requested you be brought to him as soon as you returned.”
“Of course he did,” Poyut growled. She stepped away when Varia reached out, holding an arm protectively in front of Ethyr. “Do not touch us,” she said venomously. “Or you’ll lose your hands. We can see ourselves to Lyrian, thank you.”
“I insist we accompany you,” Varia said. Poyut clenched her jaw.
“As guard steward and King’s Guard, I am ordering you to step down.”
“You are no longer the guard steward,” the woman said smugly. “The Guard Master has dismissed you for conspiracy against the council and the king.”
“I’m the king,” Ethyr bristled. “The only conspiracy against me is Lyrian’s! I did not approve Poyut’s removal from office.”
Varia looked at him, unmoved.
Poyut’s sword rang from its sheath and the palace guard finally stepped back, hand going to her own hilt.
“We’re going to see Lyrian anyway,” Poyut said through her teeth, seething. “Either it’s without your escort, or you can accompany us missing your sword hand. Your choice.”
Varia glanced at the other guard, who looked too indecisive to be of any help. Her grip slowly relaxed off her hilt and she stepped aside.
“Good,” Poyut said coldly, then ushered Ethyr into the palace, sword still brandished.
They went right for the advisor study. Lyrian stood in the corridor in front of the doors, chin lifted, hands behind his back, waiting. Expecting.
“Lyrian, what do you think you’re—” Ethyr started to charge forward but Poyut grabbed his arm, pulling him back.
“What is this about a conspiracy?” Poyut demanded.
“You were plotting to overthrow the council,” Lyrian said, a light disbelief to his voice, as if saying ‘how can you not know this?’ “To undermine the very seat of our government.”
“I did no such thing,” Poyut hissed. “Everyone knows it’s you doing that!”
“Me?” Lyrian chuckled quietly. “I would never think of it. In fact, I was discussing ways to strengthen the council with Justice Malor.”
“Malor?” Poyut spat.
“Malor?” Ethyr asked, much quieter.
“She agrees the evidence against you is too strong to ignore,” Lyrian continued.
“Oh,” Poyut scoffed. “I see. She’s happy to let you have power as long as she’s rising with you?”
“I didn’t agree to this,” Ethyr spoke up. “You cannot dismiss Poyut without my permission.”
Lyrian raised his eyebrows at him. “It doesn’t matter, she’ll have to stand trial for her transgressions, so we’ll be needing a replacement regardless of your agreement. I warned you, Poyut is too volatile to be in any position of power.”
“I’ll show you volatile,” Poyut growled, stepping forward.
“Guards!” Lyrian called. He stepped aside as five guards came flooding in from the surrounding corridors, drawing their own swords.
One blade met Poyut’s, blocking her from Lyrian, and tried to toss it aside.
She leaped away before they got the chance, putting her back to the wall and eying the five as they cornered her.
“Poyut!” Ethyr cried.
“Ethyr, go—now!” she barked, bracing the flat of her blade with her palm against the two that came down on her. Instead of obeying, Ethyr flung himself onto the back of the nearest guard.
They hadn’t paid him any more mind than a fly, none of them seeing him as a threat, so they weren’t prepared for a pissed off milksop to latch on to one of them and claw viciously at their face, digging his nails into any and every cavity he could find.
The guard yelled, stumbling backwards, and avoiding his swinging sword took up the others’ attentions. Poyut rushed forward in the opening, disarming one guard and maiming another. The guard Ethyr was on slammed him into a wall, knocking the breath from his lungs.
“Ethyr!” Poyut cried. He braced against the wall and shoved the guard with all his strength, dropping to the ground as the man stumbled forward and, still blind from having his eyes gouged, ran right into Poyut’s sword. She drove it through him, then pushed his body into the guard advancing on her.
She ran to Ethyr, but he was already on his feet, not caring about his throbbing tailbone. He grabbed her hand and sprinted.
Lyrian had dismissed every palace guard, but apparently hadn’t had time or the recruits to fully replace each one, so they were surprisingly sparse and Poyut only had to deal with a guard or two at a time as they fled through the corridors.
But they could hear the guards Lyrian sent running after them, the echoes of their sandals on the marble much louder than Poyut’s and his.
They were gaining on them. Ethyr had taken them by surprise, but next time they had to face down a group of guards he doubted he’d have a chance to give Poyut an advantage again.
He spotted an open servant door, slightly ajar in the wall, and dragged Poyut to it, scrambling once inside to find the handle and drag it shut.
It had been too long since he’d full-on sprinted, and he could hardly breathe. He would have loved to sink against the wall and catch his breath. But they couldn’t wait around to see if the guards would figure out where they had disappeared to.
“Come on,” he whispered to Poyut, finding her hand and pulling her along.
He didn’t have the paths memorized as he was sure servants did, but he knew well enough which direction led to an exit. He shuffled along, hand against the wall, other clenched tightly in Poyut’s, as he made his way to the back of the palace.
They startled a group of servants retrieving laundry from the clothes lines as they burst out of a door into the laundry room.
Two of the four walls weren’t walls at all, but open archways to let in air and light, and the sudden brightness, even from the fading light of dusk, was blinding after the all-encompassing darkness of the walled-in corridor.
“Stay quiet,” Ethyr hissed at the servants as they scrambled to their feet. “You didn’t see us.”
They rushed past the wood basins and washboards, the shelves of soap and filled jars, dodging through the clothing and bedding hung on ropes to dry.
Poyut’s hand snagged against his, jerking him back as she stopped him from running towards the temple.
“We have to get to the stable,” she told him.
“No! You know there are guards that way. And throughout the city.” He tugged her hand in turn. “Please, it’ll be easier to escape this way.”
“We’ll be trapped up there!”
“We won’t! Just trust me!”
Poyut groaned, but complied, sheathing her sword and following Ethyr up the mountain. None of the priests would stop them, they just had to get to the patio of flowers. If they could get into the Gods’ Realm, they wouldn’t have anyone or anything stopping them from leaving the city.
Already exhausted from the mad dash through the palace, running up an incline was a special form of torture, and it was pure desperation that pushed his shaking legs up and up and up.
Poyut, despite being weighed down by a sword and light armor, was doing much better, and it was her hand pulling his that stopped him from collapsing.
The temple loomed over them. They were mere strides from the entrance when the sound of galloping hooves turned them around.
Lyrian yanked his ride to a skidding halt. Poyut shoved Ethyr behind her as the man dismounted, ringing her sword from its sheath.
“Bit predictable, don’t you think?” Lyrian asked, ambling forward, pulling his own sword from his belt and swinging it in a dexterous arch.
“Don’t, Poyut.” Ethyr gripped the arm she held in front of him. “Just go. He won’t hurt me.”
“Are you sure?” Lyrian asked, the pleasant etiquette of his voice sending chills down Ethyr’s spine. It was no different from the tone of all the compliments and niceties and reassurances he’d given Ethyr over the months.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Ethyr replied, trying not to let his uneasiness show. “The gods will kill you!”
Lyrian clicked his tongue, still advancing with slow, carefree steps, the tip of his sword dragging in the dirt road. Poyut stepped back, pushing Ethyr with her, eyes locked on Lyrian with bitterly seething anger.
“If that were the case,” Lyrian said, tilting his head, “they’d be here now, protecting you.
But they aren’t.” He smirked with the smug satisfaction of knowing he was right.
“They stopped caring about humans centuries ago. Now we’re just toys for their entertainment.
When one breaks or gets too old, it’s easily replaced.
They don’t have any reason to waste their effort protecting you. ”
Ethyr swallowed.
“Ethyr,” Poyut said under her breath. “Go into the temple. I’ll hold him off.”
Ethyr slowly released her arm, taking a step back, gnawing his lip. He didn’t want to leave her, but he also knew he had no help to offer. He’d just be an obstacle and distraction in her fight.
“Poyut,” he whispered, annoyed at the tears that welled into his eyes. Surely any second, more guards would come following Lyrian, and she wouldn’t stand a chance. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I should have listened to you from the start. I should have known how lucky I was to have you.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” Poyut said firmly. Lyrian charged forward. “Go!” she yelled at Ethyr as she darted forward to meet him.
The harsh impact of their swords echoed down the mountainside.
Ethyr stumbled back a few steps, but he couldn’t make himself abandon her.
He watched, wide-eyed and helpless, as she parried Lyrian’s first few strikes.
Despite him being bigger than her, she didn’t even have the advantage of agility, as he moved with adept speed, forcing her to defend with no opening to take the offense.
But anger threaded her limbs and kept her blows equal to Lyrian’s, not allowing his strength and build to drive her back.
Ethyr had never seen either of them in a real fight, and it was as impressive as it was terrifying.
The both of them moved with deadly skill and accuracy, blade matching blade, feet matching feet, like some kind of dance.
Even Lyrian seemed surprised at how well Poyut held her own, his casual indifference riled up to frustrated effort as he swung and stabbed.
It happened too quickly for Ethyr to catch the mistake.
One second, Poyut was pivoting, matching Lyrian’s strike, the next her sword was on the ground and Lyrian’s blade was embedded in her side.
He ripped it out. Poyut staggered sideways, shoulders heaving.
Even with a gaping wound in her side, she reached for her sword.
Lyrian raised his to deliver the killing blow.
Ethyr had no concept of what he was doing even as he did it, rushing forward, colliding into Lyrian with every ounce of force and momentum and weight he could throw.
The man fell backwards, raising an arm to shove at Ethyr as they hit the ground together.
He caught Lyrian’s forearm in his mouth and bit down as hard as he could, flesh and muscle giving way under his teeth and filling his mouth with the metallic taste of blood.
Lyrian yelled out in pain and bashed his hilt into the side of Ethyr’s head.
The burst of ringing pain turned the world black and silent for a few seconds. When the world returned, Lyrian was lumbering to his feet. Ethyr scrambled to his own, tripping over the spinning ground, but still managing to make himself vertical.
“I trusted you!” he spat at Lyrian. “You had the advisor office! Why did you have to do all this?”
“Because,” Lyrian hissed back, adjusting the hold on his sword. “The kingship is a fucking joke. The gods are a fucking joke. You were the proof of it, the living example of what cowardly, weak-willed zealots let this kingdom become. We don’t need the gods, we need a real leader.”
“The advisor has been the true leader for centuries!” Ethyr shouted.
“The advisor?” Lyrian snarled. “Hiding in the shadows, doing all the work, getting none of the credit? At the beck and whim of whatever spoiled priest is king that year? I don’t think so.
You’re the last pathetic figure standing in the way of my greatness.
” Lyrian shook his head. “I liked you, Ethyr, I did. But you’ve gotten too many notions into your head that make you a risk to keep around. ”
His lunge didn’t fully register in Ethyr’s brain. Neither did the strange pressure in his chest, until he looked down at the sword speared through the center of it.
It drew back out. Yet the pressure remained. It was odd; a slow ebb, moving down his torso, down his legs, until they collapsed under him. He didn’t feel himself hit the ground, only heard a distantly screamed “No!” as night sky took over his vision.
He blinked. When his eyes opened, Kiaro was in them. The god’s face was strange, contorted, like he was the one dying. The lump of tangled roots appeared in his hand. He plunged it into Ethyr’s chest.