Page 4 of The Concubine King
“The High Priest is waiting, Your Divinity.”
Ethyr looked at the guard, not believing that she was talking to him.But she was.The woman stepped outside, carrying his basket under one arm.Ethyr trailed after.
The priest had retreated to the side of the carriage, the threatening expression of the other guard keeping the villagers at a distance.Both guards had sheaths strapped to their leather belts, and the colorful fabric-wrapped hilts nestled at the top were enough to dissuade anyone from tempting boundaries.
“Make way,” the guard leading Ethyr boomed.Villagers practically scrambled over each other to move aside.Once again, they all stared at Ethyr like he was a stranger as he walked through the parted crowd.People he would consider family, who had watched him grow and who he had watched grow, who had laughed with him and chided him, whose homes he could wander into with only a quick greeting to announce his presence—staring like he was one of the exotic animal pelts travelers showed off at festivals.
Ethyr stopped in front of the old priest.Poyut leaned into the carriage to set the basket down, then stepped to the side and stood at attention.The priest gestured to the open door.
“Your Divinity.”He did not say it with ill-intent, but with clear impatience.
Ethyr glanced over his shoulder.Tebhen and Deian had followed, but they stood with the rest of the villagers several paces away.Deian was still sobbing into her hands, Tebhen’s arm wrapped around her in futile comfort.Ethyr looked to Mikel, who hadn’t moved at all, in body or expression.His heart dropped to his stomach as cold reality stiffened his spine.No one was going to stand up for him.No one was going to stop this.
He turned and stepped towards the open door, flinching back when the guard held out a hand.He blinked at it, then slowly reached out to take it and let her act as support to hoist into the carriage.
The inside was even more luxurious than the exterior.The outside of the carriage was painted white, but the inside was a beautiful blue like the color of a clear sky and the floor was covered in a plush red rug.Stretching across the ends of the carriage were seats wrapped in gold silk filled with what must have been loose wool, as its spongy consistency sank under his weight.
He caught a glimpse of the dumbfounded faces of the crowd, then the old man stepped into the carriage and blocked his view.The guard closed the door after him and the priest reached over to swing an embossed golden latch down to secure it in place.
The small circular window in the door was latticed, half-obscuring the view, but Ethyr saw Mikel break from his door frame and take a few steps forward.For a moment, Ethyr thought he was about to speak up; that he would charge in front of the carriage and challenge the absurdity and injustice of all this.He didn’t.
The guards returned to their mounts and the priest reached up to another golden handle that was attached to the wall behind him, its semi-circle interrupted in the middle with an elaborately carved butterfly.He knocked it twice against the wall, the driver slapped his reins, and the carriage strained forward.
Mikel stood and stared at the carriage as it rolled past.How badly Ethyr wanted to force his way out and rush into his arms.The other villagers made space for the entourage and Ethyr watched their faces all slide past as well.The carriage looped around the village center, which Ethyr would not have thought big enough to accommodate it, and started back the way it came.
The priest settled into the cushioned seat with a raspy sigh that managed to sound both relieved and annoyed.
The last of the huts vanished from view, and all Ethyr could see were shorn fields of harvested rye and barley on either side of the road.
“What do you know of the king’s duties?”
Ethyr’s attention was drawn back to the priest.Somehow it was a welcome reprieve.
“The king…” He stared down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers.“Keeps the gods happy.”
“And why is that?”
Ethyr looked back up.
The priest sighed, steepling his fingers and closing his eyes.“This will be a long few years,” he muttered under his breath.He opened his eyes again and scrutinized Ethyr.His irises were so icy blue it was unsettling.
“Listen carefully,” he said, as though Ethyr had anything else to do.“Long ago, mankind was besieged by the old gods, the wild gods, who sought to destroy civilization.We had no chance against them.We entreated the civilized gods for help.They agreed, but they wanted an offering in return.We offered them our best harvests, our healthiest livestock, our most beautiful textiles.They wanted none of it.They wanted the best ofus, the highest echelon of society, devoted to the gods for as long as they willed it.And in that way, as long as we relinquish the best among us to serve them, they know we are still keeping our side of the deal.The king is the ultimate offering in exchange for peace and prosperity across the entire kingdom.”
Ethyr swallowed, but it did nothing to relieve the lump in his throat.He knew all of that, but hearing it spelled out so clearly, in reference tohim, was dizzying.“Then why did they choose me?”he whispered.He was far from the ‘highest echelon’ of anything, whatever that even meant.
“I do not know,” the priest replied stiffly.“You can ask them yourself soon enough.”
Ethyr stared at him blankly.The words did not register, could not register, because the thought of him meeting the gods themselves was impossible to comprehend.
“So that,” the priest continued, “is your most important duty as king: pleasing the gods.Now, how much poetry do you know?”
Ethyr continued staring blankly, for an entirely different reason.He was just as much not a bard as he was not a king.Why on earth would he know any poems?
The priest’s lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line as he looked him up and down again.“Can you play any instruments?”
Ethyr shook his head.
“Can you sing?”
