Chapter Nineteen
Lyrian made short work of moving in and taking over Yorith’s study.
The bookshelves were replaced with wall hangings, a decoration of crossed swords hung above the fireplace, the seats and plush carpet taken out to make room for a large table that had a map of the entire kingdom carved onto it.
Only the desk remained, still flooded with papers and scrolls and letters.
Most of Lyrian’s own servants did the moving, but despite the fact they were saving them work, the palace servants treated them coldly.
When the study was refurnished and Lyrian’s belongings stored in his palace bedroom, most of the servants returned to his estate.
Two stayed: Satya, Lyrian’s head attendant, and Sondayus, Lyrian’s main cook.
The former kept to herself most of the time, focused only on Lyrian and his room and items. The latter didn’t find as easy a fit in the kitchen.
After only three days but about a dozen arguments that were so loud even Ethyr heard a few, Gionan informed Ethyr that the palace cook had left and Lyrian had instated Sondayus as head of the kitchen.
This troubled Gionan, but Ethyr didn’t see what difference it made; the food remained the same and the scheduled meals arrived on time.
He had more pressing concerns, anyway. Despite it being Lyrian’s insistence, he was too busy moving and catching up with advisor responsibilities to do much of the coronation planning. And Ethyr had not realized how much planning it would be.
The outfit was the easy part. He was determined to use the embroidered garments Edora was almost finished making and, surprisingly, Gionan agreed with no argument about how it wasn’t grand enough or appropriate for the occasion or any of the other issues he often had.
Then it was a flurry of activity and requests.
Meeting with the treasurers to allocate funds; meeting with the magistrate and censors to determine the rate of tax for visiting merchants; meeting with guildmasters to tell them this information and discuss merchant allowances; sitting for his portrait to be drawn and then deciding how many copies should be made and spread around based on time, allotted money, and estimated outcome; and approving or rejecting the thousands of tiny details people were constantly presenting to him.
Ethyr wasn’t qualified for any of it; he was just a sentient statue listening to everyone else discuss and make decisions that he then pointlessly authorized.
He stood in the tailoring room, arms outstretched while Edora and one of her assistants made final adjustments to his garments.
“Your Divinity.”
He turned in surprise to Lyrian, unable to stop his spreading smile. “Lyrian! It feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
The man smiled wearily. “Maybe because you haven’t. Yorith left quite a mess behind.”
“Is it that bad?”
Lyrian shrugged. “It’s getting somewhere manageable. Don’t worry about that, Your Divinity. Are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Almost.” Ethyr gestured to his dress. “What do you think?” The silk undertunic went to his ankles and in ambient light the embroidered sheer fabric of his overskirt looked near invisible against the cream silk.
Both layers were hemmed with intricate strips of red woven braid.
The overskirt was slit up the sides to his hips, where it connected to another woven strip of red and gold that accentuated his waist while the rest of the gossamer fabric draped off his torso in a pleasingly loose way.
The undertunic was sleeveless, exposing a hint of his bare arms under the wide sleeves of the chiffon, tied at his wrists with gold ribbon, and the open back was strategically covered with the embroidered gauze as well.
The contrast of shimmering gold embroidery against his dusky skin was more striking than the dress itself—for now.
This was the first garment he’d had a say in, and now that he was wearing something he actually wanted, he had to admit that Edora was quite skilled.
She cut the embroidered fabric with such finesse that the patterns almost perfectly matched up again where they were sewn together, and with stitches so fine they were invisible even in the mesh.
Lyrian looked him over with casual interest, but it was enough to warm his cheeks. “Leaving it a bit late, aren’t we?”
Ethyr cleared his throat and rubbed his neck, which got an annoyed tsk from Edora. He put his arm back into place. “It’s just the last few adjustments. There hasn’t been time to make them.”
Lyrian stepped over to the table covered in accessories and bits of fabric. He picked up two long red earrings and stepped so close to Ethyr he could feel the man’s body heat.
“Wh-what are you doing?” Ethyr asked nervously.
“Completing the ensemble,” Lyrian said with low amusement, brushing some of Ethyr’s hair from his ear and gently hooking an earring through it. He did the same with the other, then stepped back to look him over again with an approving nod. “That’s better.”
“You think?” Ethyr asked, blushing and voice wavering like a boy with his first crush. How embarrassing. Lyrian only smiled.
“Klara told you of your role tomorrow?”
Ethyr nodded.
“How many personal guards has Poyut reserved for the ceremony?”
“I–I don’t know. Should I know?”
Lyrian sighed. “The coronation is probably the most dangerous point in a king’s life. My guards will be out in full force, naturally, but it’s your personal guard entail, their number and skill, that is what guarantees your safety.”
Ethyr's stomach dropped. “No one told me that. Why is it so dangerous? I’ve been out in the city before, it was fine.”
“Random excursions are one thing, but when someone knows exactly when and where you’ll be out of the palace, it encourages premeditated violence.”
“But why?” Ethyr demanded. “I haven’t done anything to anyone. Why would someone want to hurt me? Wouldn’t it anger the gods?”
Lyrian’s eyebrows rose. “Sometimes that’s exactly why someone wants to hurt you.”
Ethyr swallowed.
“If you’d like, I can talk to Poyut and help her coordinate. It’s too important a task to be left to a novice.”
Ethyr bit his lip. He trusted Poyut, but maybe Lyrian had a point. “O-okay,” he acquiesced. “Just to make sure everything is prepared as best it can be for tomorrow.”
Lyrian dipped his head. “Thank you, Your Divinity. I will see you then.”
The streets were packed with more variety than Ethyr had ever seen in his life.
It wasn’t only the wealthy city residents in their chiffons, their well-dressed servants, and the high-class merchants.
The city was bursting at the seams with throngs of people and colors and coarse fabrics that looked out of place against the shimmering backdrop of the pristine streets.
Wool was beside silk, linen next to exotic furs, pale skin alongside dark, blond hair mixed with black.
Children wove in and out of the crowds, chasing each other and laughing, while the small, well-groomed dogs of the city cautiously sniffed or barked at the intruding burly dogs who actually served a purpose.
Guards on the ground moved ahead of the carriage to push the crowd to the sides of the street and make room, but as soon as they passed pedestrians flooded behind the carriage and followed excitedly.
The circle of mounted guards around it kept them from getting too close, but many still braved a dart along the sides to try to catch a glimpse inside.
He tore his eyes from the scenes outside and looked to Poyut sitting across from him. “If this is so dangerous, why did Lyrian insist I do it?”
“To have a reason to tell me what to do, probably,” Poyut muttered.
Ethyr tilted his head. “He’s my advisor now, you have to play nice.”
“I know,” she sighed, turning her own gaze out the window. “To tell you the truth, I’d be relieved if that was really his only motivation.”
“What other motivation could he possibly have?”
“It feels like he’s trying to distract everyone.”
“From what?”
“I don’t know,” Poyut said grimly. “That’s what concerns me.”
Ethyr shook his head, slumping against the seat. He’d learned that trying to defend Lyrian got him nowhere. No one listened to him.
The carriage stopped. Poyut leaned forward to see out the window and Ethyr mirrored her.
They were at the edge of the city where he’d never been, where the buildings dwindled away and left only what Lyrian had called an amphitheater.
Rows and rows of seats, already packed full, inclined down into the earth before flattening out to level ground with the structure of a stage rising from it.
Calling it a ‘stage’ seemed silly. It was nothing like the rudimentary platforms traveling entertainers erected in his commune’s market; it was built of the same shining stone as the other buildings, and so tall that it rose several heights above the street, even starting from the recessed ground.
A lack of seats didn’t prevent the crowd from spilling out into the street, and guards were doing their best to corral the waiting spectators to make an open walkway.
The arrival of the carriage had made them go from idle chatter to buzzing excitement, and people pushed to get to the front of the crowd to see Ethyr for themselves.
Four guards bearing a palanquin stepped up to the carriage, so that when Poyut opened the door, Ethyr had only to step from one shelter to another.
Unlike the sturdy walls of the carriage, the palanquin was covered with opaque golden silk.
It swished closed behind Ethyr as he sat on the cushion in the middle of the platform.
Then it glided forward. Despite being carried by men down a flight of steps, it was a surprisingly smooth motion from beginning to end.
Then the palanquin was carefully lowered to the ground, so he parted the silk curtain and stepped out.