Chapter Seven
Ethyr spent the rest of the night being fed wine and little treats, having his hair played with, and being traded around for an endless shower of kisses.
Some of the gods smattered his face with kisses and caressed his head like he was an adorable pet, some kissed sweet and sensual, some hard and deep.
But he was happy to be subjected only to affection, and not ravaging lust or forced performance like he’d been expecting.
The only one who didn’t participate was Kiaro, who silently disappeared halfway through the night.
He fell asleep on Gnaeus’s lap while she brushed her fingers lovingly through his hair. Deian used to do the same thing when he was young, and it lulled him into a deep sleep with heart-aching dreams.
He woke when the door opened. The empty room was dim with a dying lantern and the light of dawn fading down from the top windows.
He was lying across the same cushioned seat, but his clothes were significantly more rumpled than when he’d first sat on it.
He pushed himself up to look at Yorith surveying him with pursed lips.
“I suppose they were pleased with you, then,” he said, cold and disappointed. Ethyr didn’t know why, he thought he was supposed to please the gods. “Come along. We’ll get you washed up.”
Ethyr’s head spun when he sat up, but Yorith was already walking out.
He stumbled off the bench, not sure if exhaustion or wine or something else was making him so woozy.
When he reached the doorway, Poyut was there to take his elbow and help him down the corridor.
He leaned gladly on her muscular arm for support.
“Are you okay, Your Divinity?”
He nodded, not meeting her eyes.
The temple that had been so empty the evening before was filled now with priests praying, studying, or cleaning. They all stopped what they were doing when the group passed and bowed low, but Ethyr could feel their eyes on him once they were behind him, accompanied by the occasional whisper.
When they returned to the palace he was once again dragged to the bathing room. He pleaded to wash himself, and Gionan reluctantly agreed, sending the other attendants away, though he stayed to supervise. Apparently his help could not be dismissed.
Despite the fact that morning sun was filling the palace halls, after he had bathed Gionan dressed him in a silk undershirt and brought him straight to his bed, but he had no complaints about that.
He hadn’t exactly gotten much sleep during the night.
He fell into the cocoon of blankets and passed out.
A long, warbling birdcall pulled him from sleep.
For a brief, blissful moment, he thought it was the call of the village rooster, waking them at the crack of dawn to start the day.
It was a dream that quickly dissipated when he realized he was on too soft a material in too bright and big a room for it to be true.
He sat up, scratching his hair and looking around.
Did everything from the previous night even happen?
Maybe that was all a dream, too; it was certainly surreal enough to be one.
If every night with the gods went as pleasantly and simply as that, he didn’t think he’d mind his new occupation after all.
He’d been too tired to notice the room the previous night—well, morning—but it had been cleaned, the desk cleared, with refreshed water and a new washcloth left for him. He didn’t feel dirty at all, having bathed three times in two days now, but he washed his face and hands anyway.
The book was gone from the mirror-table. Ethyr didn’t know whether he was happy about it or not. He supposed Klara must have taken it back.
He stood on the balcony, leaning on the railing and basking in the warm sun for quite a while before there was a knock on the door. He turned to look at it, waiting, but no one entered. After a few seconds there was another knock.
He went over to open it, a little confused. So far people had barged in without a single knock at all. Poyut stood at the door, holding a pile of folded clothes he recognized immediately as his own.
He took them from her, chest bursting to see something so familiar and comforting. His linen undershirt, his sleeveless tunic, his braided belt, and his boots, too.
“Thank you,” he said wholeheartedly, running his fingers over the rough woolen fabric. Everything in the palace was disturbingly smooth or inhumanly soft; he craved texture.
When he looked up, the somber expression on Poyut’s face creased his own. “What is it?”
“I’m… so sorry, Ethyr,” she said. “Your other things… your basket… they’re gone.”
His heart dropped like a heavy stone into a still pond. “What do you mean?”
“It was… determined… that you wouldn’t need those items anymore, because it doesn’t get too cold here. They were sold to a traveling merchant, who has already left the city.”
Ethyr couldn’t breathe. He didn’t realize his eyes had welled up until tears wet his cheeks.
“Why?” he demanded, clutching the bundle in his arms tighter, as though it would be taken from him right then too. “Who let them do that? You said they’d bring it here for me!”
“I know, I didn’t realize—”
“You promised they’d be fine!” he shouted. “You told me I didn’t have to worry!”
“I know, I’m so sorry—” He slammed the door shut.
He stood for a moment, staring at it, chest heaving and vision blurry. Then he dropped to his heels and buried his face in the folded tunic, sobbing.
When he’d cried himself dry, he sat miserably on the floor for a few minutes. The months and months of work, the years of skill, that had gone into crafting a physical manifestation of Deian’s love for him, sold to a complete stranger. The last remaining pieces of his life.
Well, not the last. He looked down at the clothes in his arms, his woven belt laid carefully across the top, its bright blue and yellow pattern crisp against the faded crimson of his tunic. At least he still had that; Mikel had gifted it to him not a year ago.
He pulled himself together and got dressed in his own clothes, then opened the door to peer out into the hall.
There were guards standing at either end of the hall, but Poyut was nowhere to be seen.
He felt bad for yelling. He knew it wasn’t Poyut’s fault.
He had a pretty good guess whose fault it was, though.
He almost ducked back inside the room. But he was supposedly king, and this was, supposedly, his palace—so he supposed he could go where he wanted. He sucked in a deep breath and started down the hall. The guards watched him, but didn’t say anything.
He knew the way from the bedroom to the washroom well by then, but everything else was a bit hazy.
He remembered the room where he'd eaten breakfast; he’d quite liked it, its wide open windows looking out at the garden and letting in an occasional breeze.
There was the courtyard, and the room where he’d tried on all those outfits.
He couldn’t remember exactly how he’d gotten there, though.
So he wandered around, peering into rooms when their doors were open.
Despite the cocky confidence he had convinced himself of earlier, he didn’t dare open any closed doors.
Guards were stationed throughout the halls, but they never stopped him.
He found another bathing room, and plenty more bedrooms that looked completely unlived in. There was a room without a ceiling, letting in an enormous amount of light, with marble lounging seats and potted plants filling the space.
The first floor was far busier, with servants hurrying along the halls and working in various rooms. One room had a fire built into the wall at one end and a brick oven bigger than any oven Ethyr had ever seen built against the other.
Between the two were at least six tables, all surrounded by people preparing various foods.
A room nearby was filled floor-to-ceiling with dishware and food stores that could have fed his entire village for a year.
He noted that people were coming and going between those two rooms more than anywhere else.
A similar room nearby didn’t have places for cooking or dry storage, but appeared dedicated to butter, cheese, and cream.
People not diligently working always bowed low to him as he passed. It was strange to have everyone stop what they were doing and bring all attention to him. He almost missed the silent, watchful company of the guards.
A familiar voice drifting through closed double doors stopped him from continuing past. He backtracked and stood near it as innocuously as he could, straining to hear.
“—was chosen,” someone was saying. “He deserves a proper ceremony. The city deserves a proper ceremony.”
“And give them a notion that he’s really their king?” Yorith replied, voice laced with contempt. “Give him that notion?”
“He is king!” the other person exclaimed. Ethyr had never heard anyone speak so forcefully to Yorith before. Everyone seemed to fear or respect him too much. “The gods have declared it.”
“Which does not mean we need to declare it to the world.”
“Does it matter? You let the others think they had a modicum of power and control. Why is he any different? Are you really that scared of a village boy?”
“Of course not,” Yorith snapped. “But that’s exactly the point.
He has no education, no experience, no connection to the people of this city, let alone the kingdom.
A priest would understand the weight of the role.
If he gets it in his head that he’s more than a revered toy, the careless use of even limited power can wreak havoc. ”
“So train him! That’s your job!”
“My job, Lyrian,” Yorith said, words frigid, “is to keep the kingdom from falling apart. I cannot do that if I’m babysitting some peasant brat.”