Page 37 of The Concubine King
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.
