Chapter Seventeen #2
Yorith turned fed-up irritation to Ethyr. “I see your education and obstinance have found a middle ground. It’s a pity one could not have overcome the other; you’d be far less of a precarious liability if they had.” Yorith stepped forward, hand out as though ready to yank Ethyr from Lyrian’s side.
Lyrian’s movement drew both Yorith and Ethyr’s gaze.
In one sweeping action he snatched a pen off the desk and closed in on Yorith.
For a long, disorienting few seconds, Ethyr didn’t understand what was happening.
He saw Lyrian’s fist in front of Yorith’s throat, and the priest’s hands grasping weakly at it.
It could have been a painting frozen in time, Yorith’s gaping mouth and wide eyes locked onto Lyrian’s calm, solemn expression.
Then Lyrian yanked his fist down and blood bubbled from Yorith’s neck like one of the garden fountains outside, spilling over his still grasping hands and down the front of his plain blue robe.
He staggered backwards, gurgling a horrible moan that pushed out blood between his lips and down his chin.
He stumbled into a chair and sank against it, dropping to the floor.
“What did you do?” Ethyr cried.
“Didn’t you hear him?” Lyrian asked. “He was going to kill you. You know he was going to kill me. I had no choice.”
Ethyr’s mouth opened and closed, unable to respond, unable to think, unable to tear his gaze from Yorith, blood-soaked and slack-jawed, slouched on the floor. The old man’s gnarled hands left his neck and slowly dropped.
A sticky warmth was pushed into his fingers. He looked down at the slim metal coated in blood and recoiled on instinct, dropping it to the floor. Black ink spattered out onto the white marble, mixing with the rivulets of red.
Lyrian lifted the pen and forced it back into Ethyr’s hand, squeezing it between his own. Ethyr stared at the man’s hands, thinking how strange it looked for one to be dripping with blood while the other was clean and white.
“Listen to me, Ethyr,” Lyrian said forcefully, the tone of his voice pulling Ethyr’s eyes up to his. The fire that was absent before was in them now. “You killed Yorith, understand?”
“What? No, I—”
“If it’s found out I did this, I’ll be executed. But you’re king, they can’t touch you. It was self-defense, Ethyr; they won’t side with a dead man who assaulted the king.”
“But he didn’t.” Ethyr didn’t know who was talking, because it didn’t feel like his words. But they were coming out of his mouth, in his voice, small and uncertain and scared. “I wouldn’t.”
“You would. You’re strong and fierce and you wouldn’t let him hurt you, would you? You wouldn’t let him hurt your village or your friends.”
His gaze tilted from the intensity of Lyrian’s brown eyes over to where Yorith lay. He was motionless, head hanging limply from his neck like a rag doll.
“Listen to me!” Lyrian barked, and Ethyr snapped back to him. “You won’t be punished for this, understand? And you can finally be king, a real king.”
“I don’t want to be king!” Ethyr cried. “I never wanted any of this!”
“I know, I know,” Lyrian soothed. “But you have nothing to worry about. I’ll help you—I can help you be king.
But not if I’m dead.” His eyes held Ethyr’s with firm confidence.
He slowly released his hand. When the pen remained clenched in it, Lyrian strode over to Yorith and knelt beside him, pressing a palm over the gushing wound on his neck as though it would do anything at that point.
Ethyr watched through eyes that were as equally foreign to him as his voice.
Lyrian pressed an ear to Yorith’s chest, indifferent to the blood-saturated fabric.
When he lifted his head, the side of his face was smeared with red, some of his dark blond hair stained darker.
Sunset still filled the room, but its gold seemed as dark and smeared as the blood now.
Two guards were at Yorith’s other side. They were shouting something at Lyrian. One held the priest’s head up, taking over the pressure on his throat, still as though it could help.
Hands grabbing his arms jerked Ethyr’s senses back to the room and he looked into Poyut’s kneeling face.
“Ethyr! What happened?” she asked, with the desperate force of someone repeating the same thing for a third time.
“I…” Ethyr looked up. Lyrian was watching him intently. He looked down at his bloody hand. “I… I k-killed him.”
Poyut followed his gaze to his hand. She gently pried his fingers open, lifting the pen with furrowed brow. Frowning, she glanced at the desk, where Lyrian had been standing when she left, then back at Ethyr.
“Ethyr,” she said firmly. “What happened?”
“I killed him,” he whispered, fainter than before.
“Yorith attacked him,” Lyrian butted in. “He was defending himself.”
Poyut threw a glare over her shoulder. Then she stood, tucking the pen into her belt and addressing the two guards.
“When the physician arrives, tell Jamyr and Lanticus to escort all guests out of the palace. Calmly, giving whatever excuse they need to keep the peace. None of them are to hear about this, understand?”
“Yes, understood,” the guards said in unison. Poyut gripped Ethyr’s hand and he followed her mindlessly from the study. He had no recollection of getting to his bedroom. He sat on a chair by the fire, watching Poyut gently wipe his hand clean and wring out the blood in a wash basin.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She looked up, surprised, which dropped to worried sorrow. “What are you sorry for?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled.
She draped the cloth over the side of the basin to hold his hands in her own. “Ethyr, tell me what really happened. It’ll be okay. You don’t have to protect him. It’s well known by now that Lyrian had planned to kill Yorith.”
“What?” The words pulled Ethyr from his numb reverie. “What do you mean?”
“One of his men approached a council member to tell her of Lyrian’s plans. He couldn’t in good conscience keep it to himself.”
“That’s it? You believe one random soldier?”
Poyut shook her head. “I don’t know the whole story, I just know that when Yorith confronted me and told me that Lyrian was plotting to have him killed, I understood it all then and had to tell him everything.
It was never Yorith who was going to kill Lyrian, it was the other way around.
And I knew—I knew he’d get you involved somehow.
” Poyut spoke the last sentence through her teeth, closing her eyes and shaking her head.
She exhaled and opened her eyes, but it didn’t release her anger, which remained clenched in her jaw.
“So don’t protect him,” she growled. “Tell me the truth, Ethyr, what really happened.” Her fingers were so tight around his that they hurt.
He pulled his hands from her. “I told you the truth!” For a lie, it came out with surprising force and sincerity. “Yorith attacked me and I killed him!”
Poyut’s tension deflated. She watched him with exasperated disbelief, but she didn’t insist again.
“Things are going to become chaotic around here,” she said softly.
“Just… keep your wits about you and stay safe, okay? If someone is only telling you what you want to hear, that means they want something from you. Try to remember that.” She got to her feet, picking up the basin.
“I’ll tell a servant to draw a bath for you. ”
Ethyr blinked up at her, feeling sick all of a sudden. “But it’s their evening off.”
Her sorrow was back as she looked down at him, biting her lip. She closed her eyes for an inhale, before opening them and smiling. “Don’t worry about that,” she told him gently. “Get clean and come right back to your room. I’ll deal with all of this, okay?”
He nodded. When she left, he stared into the fire, trying not to remember Yorith’s gaping face or the blood flowing down his chin. Strangely, it was all he could see. He sighed, heavy and stuttering, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to stop the tears.
Poyut hadn’t exaggerated. Chaos was exactly what the palace was the following morning.
Servants rushed through the halls, some seemingly with no purpose at all, just panicked, and there were no guards on the second floor to corral them.
Ethyr dressed himself in as simple a tunic and pants as he could find and made his way to the first floor, not oblivious to the looks and stares even the lowliest staff were giving him.
The king killed the high priest. It wasn’t stated outright, but the knowledge of it thrummed in every corner of the palace.
It was easy to locate where the guards had vanished to.
Half of them were at the front doors, holding back a crowd of people trying to push through.
Ethyr could pinpoint nobles and commoners alike, and surely government officials among them.
They shouted over each other, the cacophony of voices at once furious, terrified, curious, or anguished.
Upon spotting him coming down the stairs, their fervor pitched to a higher degree and several guards brandished swords to threaten them back down.
“Your Divinity.” The voice was gentle but he jumped anyway, lurching away from it. Gionan straightened from his bow, no hint of his usual annoying pleasantness to be found. Ethyr couldn’t determine whether it was grief or resentment that kept him dour. “It is best you remain in your room.”
“Where’s Poyut?”
“She’s busy.”
“Busy?” Ethyr repeated. “With what?”
“We’re all busy,” Gionan said wearily. “She is trying to coordinate the guards and help Klara with funeral preparations, and I need to keep on top of the staff and official inquiries. So will you please return to your room?”
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?”
“No.” It wasn’t just a firm statement, it was cold admonishment. Ethyr knew his presence would never be helpful, it could only be an obstacle, but he’d spent enough days locked up in his room.
“I don’t care,” he told Gionan. “Take me to Poyut.”
“Your Divinity—”