Page 6 of The Concubine King
He blinked a few times before seeming to understand the question.“Refused to be king?”
Ethyr nodded.
“No one has ever refused before,” he said pointedly, eying Ethyr.“But if you had insisted, the guards would have seized you and cut down anyone who tried to resist.The fate of the kingdom is more important than one person or village’s silly sentiments.”
Ethyr tried not to scrunch his face.He couldn’t help it when he was disgusted or annoyed, but it only served to annoy him more when people laughed him off because they thought it was cute.
“Don’t you have any family you love?”he asked.
“No,” the priest replied.“I have been under temple for as long as I can remember.”
“Under temple?”Ethyr repeated, baffled.
“In the order,” he said, as though it clarified anything.When he saw no comprehension on Ethyr’s face, he sighed heavily.“In the temple of the gods,” he said, “in the capital, where priests are raised and trained.It is the High Temple, the abode of all gods, not dedicated to any one in particular but to them all.Priests grow up there and are taught to have no attachments to anything or anyone but the gods.”
“That sounds lonely,” Ethyr mumbled.
“It is purposeful.When you have a higher purpose beyond yourself, there is no room for loneliness.”
Ethyr hoped that was true.
CHAPTER THREE
After they crossed the marsh, the landscape was simply more boggy grassland, sometimes interrupted with patches of dry land and trees, sometimes passing through farming villages that all looked much the same and mocked him for the loss of his own.He stopped looking out the window.
The priest appeared to fall asleep again, though he was sitting upright with his head drooped a little to one side, so Ethyr wasn’t sure.Despite his bony structure, his nose was rather bulbous, and he had a wart above his left eyebrow.Without those staring blue eyes, he didn’t look intimidating at all.His gnarled hands, resting in his lap, had a wax-seal ring on one finger, and a simple iron band on another.He had no belt at all, and a silver brooch that looked like a ram closed the long neckline of his robe.His cream silk shoes looked useless as comfortable or durable footwear.
It was strange fashion, to be sure.He wondered if everyone at the palace dressed like that.If he’d have to.The guards at least wore normal tunics, though of richer material than anything he could hope to own, and with sandals instead of boots.
He also examined the gold knocker on the wall behind the priest; the dark, perfectly smooth wood of the benches they sat on; wondered where the silk fabric covering it was from, what stuffed it that made the seat so comfortable; how the rug under his feet was made so fluffy and soft.
He was running out of things to hold his attention, and staying inside the little carriage was starting to become insufferable when a different cadence of noise drew his attention out the window once more.
It was not just the chatter of town life—dogs barking, children playing—it was loud, and so constant as to blend together into some indecipherable hum.Ethyr watched buildings sprout up around them.They weren’t square houses with lots of rooms hanging off them, but singularly tall, so tall that their carriage would have to be stacked on top of itself three times to even reach the roofs.And they were stuck together, or so close together not even a child could slip through the cracks.Their walls were flat and white, a material almost like dried clay.
The dull thud of hooves on dirt had become loud, tinny clops as the horses pulled the carriage over a road lined with endless flat stones.Dogs barked and fought over scraps, chickens were imprisoned in reed cages, and there seemed to be no end to the groups of people talking or shouting or laughing.They only glanced at the carriage before continuing whatever they were doing without any indication of interest.Not a goat or sheep or pig could be seen, though their meats were on display in front of some buildings.
“I’ve never seen so many people in my life,” Ethyr breathed.
The priest glanced out the window, disinterested.
“Is this what the capital is like?”
The man chuckled, shaking his head like Ethyr was an amusing child, and did not respond.
As they continued along, the street did not end, and people did not disperse.If anything there only grew to be more of them.Many of the buildings’ lower halves were open to air, and inside were shops selling fabrics, accessories, pottery, tools, meat, produce, cooked food.The latter drifted tantalizing scents through the air that rumbled Ethyr’s stomach and reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since early morning.
Night had already fallen when they first entered the city, and when the horses finally stopped and the swaying carriage stilled, the sky was pitch black.The priest lifted the door clasp and a few seconds later a guard opened it and stepped aside with an offering of his hand.
The priest gestured for Ethyr to go first.He lifted the basket, the remains of his life, and pulled away when the guard tried to take it from him.So he was allowed to keep it as he stepped down onto the stone-paved earth.The patches of stone were flat and smooth on top, but still hurt his feet through his soft-leather boots.Unlike the comforting, soft warmth of dirt, the stones only offered hard coldness, seeping up through his soles.
Although it was late into the night, the street was not dark.It was lit with lanterns attached to the surrounding buildings, though here and there people were leaning out of windows to extinguish their lights.
“Come along,” the priest said abruptly, and the male guard’s firm hand gripped Ethyr’s shoulder and forced him forward.Unlike the village, where the guards had seemed mostly relaxed and unconcerned, here they walked stiffly in front and behind them, hands on their sword hilts and eyes casting around the street.
They arrived at a bridge, a real bridge, which Ethyr had heard described but never seen.It stretched out over a river, another new sight.He had seen streams, but they were nothing like this.The water ran strong and wide, battering white foam against the stones that held the walkway so far above it, but the stones did not topple and the bridge did not budge under the force.
Ethyr didn’t know where to look as they crossed: at the smooth stone walkway, made up of thousands of individual rocks yet holding as solid and steady as earth, or over the side, at the water rushing below his feet as he walked untouched above it like a god.
