Page 17 of The Concubine King
“Not to hunt!”someone exclaimed.“Whatever do you eat?”
“We still have eggs and goat or chicken meat when they get too old to produce.”He didn’t understand the looks of disgust on their faces; they were the ones asking about meat.“Mainly we eat porridge, though,” he continued, “or bread and cheese.And garden vegetables and herbs...”He was starting to get hungry talking about it.He hadn’t taken a single bite of the feast laid out before him.He swallowed his nerves and lifted his fork—unlike on the boat, these ones were silver.
“How do you survive the winter if you cannot hunt?I heard that that far north it gets unbearably cold and not a thing can grow.”
Ethyr almost answered before remembering he wasn't supposed to talk with food in his mouth.He chewed and swallowed awkwardly, conscious of everyone waiting.
“We store grain for the winter,” he explained.“Once dry and stored over thorn-branches, it lasts for months.”He couldn’t believe they didn’t know something as simple and fundamental as that.“We pickle vegetables and preserve or dry fruits… And we store root vegetables because those keep almost all winter, too.”
The others nodded in serious consideration, as though he was saying something very wise.
They had a lot of questions about topics Ethyr would have considered both common sense and utterly boring, but for the most part the details of his life seemed to excite and intrigue them.After spending the past four days being berated for his ignorance, the positive attention lightened a weight on his chest that he hadn’t realized was there.
Eventually the questions ran out and the guests turned back to each other, their conversations shifting to names and things and events Ethyr didn’t have a clue about.
At one point the plates were cleared and savory was replaced with sweet.Fluffy pastries, little cakes, honey-coated nuts and fruit, and other treats that Ethyr had never seen took the table.Apparently it was a cue for everyone to get up and return to standing or sitting on the chairs, wandering by to pick at the colorful arrangement of decadence at their leisure.Ethyr was all too happy to pry his locked knees open and stand.
Yorith returned to his side, looking a little sour, but he didn’t say why.He led Ethyr around the courtyard and formally introduced him to everyone.There were over two dozen people; Ethyr understood only a handful of titles and remembered even less.With their faces painted he had no hope of recognizing them in the future, anyway.
The future.The reminder that he was stuck here indefinitely choked him with nausea, and any small enjoyment he was getting from the night was snuffed out.
There was nothing he could do except suffer through the event.After the introductions, Yorith left him sitting alone, wandering off to talk to others.The bench was iron, the first glimpse of a normal metal he’d seen in the palace, but the brilliantly embroidered cushions tied to it didn’t allow the mistake of seeing it as rustic.Honestly Ethyr was just relieved to not be kneeling.Plus he was glad for the company of the overflowing plants and leaves that surrounded the seat.
As the night continued, people got drunker and the manners Yorith had insisted were so important were left behind.People shouted across the courtyard to each other, demanded livelier music and danced together, spilled drinks and dropped food.Through it all, Ethyr was left alone as though he didn’t even exist.
“Your Divinity.”
He startled, looking over his shoulder to see Poyut standing behind him.
“Poyut!”He couldn’t have been more relieved to see a familiar and friendly face.And one not covered in paint, though she had changed from her practical clothes to a long silk tunic and loose pants rather similar to his.The braid that had pulled back the front of her short red hair was gone, letting her locks hang freely around her jaw.
“It is getting late, Your Divinity.I thought you might like to return to your room.”
“Am I allowed to?”Ethyr looked around for Yorith.
“Of course.The High Priest has retired for the night already.”
He frowned, annoyed that Yorith hadn’t bothered to let Ethyr know he was leaving.He stood, setting aside the wine he’d been nursing all night.An attendant swooped in out of nowhere to pick it up and carry it off.“I would very much like to leave now, thank you.”
Poyut dipped her head and held out an arm, so Ethyr walked ahead of her back into the lantern-lit halls of the palace.
When they reached his room, the fire was still going strong, and Ethyr realized it may have been for light.With textiles and fabric covering every inch of the room, loose candles were perhaps too much of a risk.But the large opening in his wall, leading out to a little platform, let in plenty of moonlight.
Ethyr glanced around.“Poyut?”
She paused from leaving.“Yes, Ethyr?”
“Where is my basket?You said they’d bring it.”
“They should have.”She glanced around the room.“I will ask a servant about it.”
“Thank you.”
When she was gone, the openness of the room was somehow oppressive.A silk undershirt had been laid over his bed—for him to sleep in, he assumed.He would have preferred linen.
He opened the two big chests in the room, one at the end of the bed and the other against a wall.They were empty.
He closed the one he was at and sat on it with a sigh.For the first time that day, he had time to breathe and gather his surroundings.The rug on his floor was a similar pattern to the painted corridor walls: symmetrical root-like tangles, except woven.The wall hangings around his room depicted the gods, and those drew his attention more.He rarely saw tapestries in his commune, and none at all in Linwood; in the north where animal husbandry was mostly goats and their main resource was leather, all that wool and dye was far too expensive to waste on anything but clothes and the occasional blanket.
