Chapter Nine #4
He sat on a bench at the guard’s gesture, slumping a little and not caring whether it was proper or not.
“Who’s Lyrian?” he asked, but the guards began talking to each other at the same time and didn’t seem to hear him.
He sighed and leaned forward to look out the little window into the street.
Not long after, Poyut came galloping down it on her horse.
It skid to a stop and she jumped off, only throwing its reins haphazardly through the metal loop in the wall before bursting into the hut.
“Ethyr!” she cried, distraught, but stopped short from hugging him. She knelt instead and picked up his hands, squeezing them between her own. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He stared down at her sadly. “Aren’t you mad at me?”
She shook her head, eyebrows pulling together. “Of course not.”
“Then you’re no longer mad at me for yelling either?”
She blinked, taken aback. “I was never mad at you.”
“Then why wouldn’t you talk to me?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and glanced over her shoulder. The two guards averted their eyes. She sighed and turned back, smiling at him. “We can talk about that later. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
He nodded slowly, not recognizing the building lump in his throat until it was too late and his eyes were brimming. A sob burst from his mouth and he ripped his hands from Poyut to bury his face in them.
“Oh,” she said sadly. “It’s okay, Your Divinity. You’re safe now. Are you hurt? Did anyone hurt you?”
He shook his head. His soaked palms slid uncomfortably wet against his cheeks, but he couldn’t bear to show his face. He didn’t even know why he was crying.
“The carriage is here,” one of the guards said.
“Yes, I see that,” Poyut replied curtly. She patted Ethyr’s knee. “Let’s get you back to the palace.” She pulled him up by his elbows. He used the cloak to hurriedly wipe his face, though he knew he looked like a wreck regardless.
“Where did you get that?”
He sniffed loudly, looking down at it. “A… a kind stranger… gave it to me.”
“That was generous of them. If you remember who they are, we can send a gift of gratitude.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if he could be found again.” If he even wanted to be found.
“Come on,” she said gently, and he followed her guidance to the carriage out front.
Attendants at the palace latched on to him right away and, just like his first day there, whisked him to the wash room.
The hot water seared against the cuts on his arms and legs, and the rough scrubbing didn’t help.
But his flinches and hisses didn’t deter his assailants.
When that was done, he was dressed and brought to a room he had never seen before, its walls filled with shelves which were in turn filled with bottles of all kinds of things.
The woman there made a salve out of some, which was spread carefully over Ethyr’s cuts and bruises.
Its cooling viscosity was a relief after the bath.
Then he was brought to his room and left there.
It had been cleaned and re-organized. He dumped the shawl beside the chest at the end of his bed before sitting on it, spreading the cloak over his lap.
It was simple, just brown wool, but being surrounded by luxury didn’t fool Ethyr; he knew a cloak like that could be half a year’s earnings for a farmer.
It was a tight, warm weave, with skilled stitching, and had clearly been well-cared for.
He couldn’t imagine why Kyarin had left it with him.
Maybe the guard had spooked him and he ran off; maybe Ethyr should have left it there for him to retrieve.
The thought that a man had lost a beloved possession because of him choked Ethyr with guilt.
He’d have to see if Poyut could find him after all, to give it back if nothing else.
He folded it carefully and placed it on top of the chest, then went to the balcony.
Two guards were stationed on the ground below it. When Ethyr leaned over the railing, they glanced up at him. He quickly pulled back out of view.
He should have expected it, but dismay still sunk to the pit of his stomach. He opened the room door and, as expected, another guard stepped in front of him to block his exit.
“Where would you like to go, Your Divinity?” he asked. Ethyr closed the door in his face.
He sat at the mirror-table, staring numbly at the polished wooden top. Now he really was a prisoner, with no pretense of grandeur or free will. But it wasn’t like he hadn’t been before.
The door opened and Poyut entered, looking grim.
“What is it?” he asked, standing.
“The High Priest has summoned you.”
A new dread settled over him. He had been wondering, in the back of his mind, when Yorith would sink his teeth into him; he’d half thought it wouldn’t happen at that point. But he should have known better. He swallowed down the nausea and followed her out.
She brought him to the room he’d once eavesdropped on. As they approached, four guards left, looking like dogs slinking off with their tails between their legs.
Inside, the room was huge and spacious, with a fireplace in the far wall surrounded by cushioned seats.
A large table covered in papers stood under a window that had real glass, with sunlight streaming through to land picturesquely on the papers.
Shelves took up the rest of the wall around the window, filled with scrolls and books.
A large rug covered most of the floor, though the front of the fire had its own little rug, plush and deep blue.
In the middle of it all stood Yorith. He was half turned away, his face fully turned away to look out the window, hands clasped behind his back.
Ethyr didn’t know why he was choked with anxiety and shame—he wasn’t intimidated by the dumb old man anymore, and he wasn’t ashamed of attempting a bid for freedom.
Though he was plenty embarrassed at how poorly it had gone.
“Sir,” Poyut said quietly, bowing low.
“Close the door on your way out,” Yorith replied curtly without glancing their way. Poyut bowed again and skirted out. The knock of wood on wood as the door shut felt somehow final in its gentleness.
Yorith’s head swiveled to lock his piercing eyes onto him. Ethyr drew in a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and forcing his own gaze hard and fierce.
“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself, then,” Yorith said, his cold enunciation belying an undertone of fury. “Making me, the guards, and the whole palace look like fools.”
“You are fools,” Ethyr said sharply. “You don’t need me for that.”
Yorith set his jaw, looking Ethyr over. “I hope your fantasies and sentiments have found a permanent grave now,” he said. “But why you have them in the first place is beyond me. You are lifted from squalor and given comfort and luxuries you would not have glimpsed or imagined in your life.”
“I didn’t need to imagine them,” Ethyr seethed. “I didn’t ask for them, I was perfectly happy in my life as it was. I’d rather live in ‘squalor’ with the people I love than live as a prisoner in luxury.”
“How many times must I tell you?” Yorith said through tense lips, stepping forward. Ethyr stepped back. “Your wants do not matter. Your past life, your relationships, do not matter. You belong to the gods now, and they are all that matter.”
“Says who?!” Ethyr burst out. “Just because I’m king I can’t have my own free will? I can’t leave this awful place? Did the gods declare that?!”
“It is for your own protection,” Yorith said frigidly.
Ethyr threw his hands. “They can pick another fucking king then, they have the whole damn kingdom to choose from!”
“Yes, and out of the whole damn kingdom, they chose you,” Yorith barked back, then reined himself in, though he continued with cold fury.
“I cannot fault you for not grasping the privilege and honor of that decision, but you are certainly old enough to know the importance of responsibility of this level. But since even that faculty has failed you, I will make it clear for you. If you attempt something like this again, it is not the gods you need worry about. I will order every last crop in Linwood burned and every hut in your village razed to the ground.”
Ethyr stared at him, horrified.
“Because that is the fate you are risking for the entire rest of the kingdom,” Yorith finished. “It is about time you took that seriously.” He lifted his chin. “Poyut!” he barked.
The door opened and she stepped inside, head down.
“Take him back to his quarters. Tell the guards he is not to leave and no one is to enter unless I allow it.”
She dipped her torso. “Yes, sir.” She straightened, face steely, and held out an arm for Ethyr to go through the doorway.
He stared at her, then Yorith, horror and fury and disbelief keeping a firm hold on his tongue. Poyut said nothing. Yorith watched him with a daring haughtiness.
He clenched his teeth and stormed out.