Page 8 of The Concubine King
He glanced around.The two guards had taken post on either side of the room, each by a door.His eyes passed over the tapestries.
“Those people are lying down,” he said, pointing to the depiction of a group around a table similar to theirs, except they were lounging on their sides and elbows.
“Reclining is acceptable and expected in casual company,” the priest sniffed.“Your presence dictates formality wherever you go, and you must present yourself accordingly.”
Ethyr sulkily returned to the meal, doing his best to follow the arbitrary rules.Every error earned him a smack, which was about every minute.They were light enough, but after so many, the slaps were beginning to sting his knuckles.His legs were numb, too.It wasn’t enough to put a damper on the meal, which was so good his mouth wouldn’t stop watering even after he’d stuffed himself full, so he ate more.He didn’t stop until he was full to his throat.
“I suppose that’ll have to do for today.We’ll continue your lessons tomorrow.”The priest stood and peered down his nose at Ethyr.“Hurry up, then.”
Ethyr leaned on a palm, huffing a shallow breath.“I don’t think I can stand up.”He flopped onto his back.“I’ll just lay here for a bit.”
“Absolutely not,” the priest snapped.“Conduct yourself with grace.”
“I followed your stupid eating rules, but we’re not eating anymore.”
“The activity does not matter,” he replied sharply.“You must maintain dignity and decorum at all times.If you do not stand, the guards will force you.”
Ethyr sighed and lay still a second more, then pushed himself to his feet.The priest turned on his heels and stalked off to the door at the far end of the room.Ethyr followed before he could snap at him again, trying to shake out his numb legs at the same time.Poyut took up his basket and followed.The door did not lead back into open boat, but to a narrow hall.
The priest had calmed himself by the time he reached a doorway.“This is your room.”
Ethyr tried not to gawk.It was just as elaborately decorated, though much smaller, than the other room.Instead of a table, this one had a beautiful quilt laying in the center, one corner strategically pulled back to expose a thick, stuffed cloth beneath it.Ethyr had to assume it was a sleeping mat, though it was nothing like the reed mats and animal furs he was used to rolling out for the night.
“I get this whole room to myself?”
“Yes.There is a basin and pitcher there to wash your hands and face.It will be refreshed in the morning to do so again.Sleep well.”He walked off, presumably to the other room whose doorway Ethyr had seen several paces past this one.Poyut rested his basket against the wall, gave him a low bow, and left.
He plopped down, relieved to be able to sit normally, and began unwrapping the ties from his calves.The two long tongues of leather that hugged his leg fell open without the ties securing them and he pulled his shoes off, stretching his legs out with a groan.He didn’t think he could kneel like that for so long.And for every meal?Who decided that torture was necessary?
When his legs didn’t feel like they were being pricked with thousands of needles, he pulled off his outer tunic, washed his hands and face, and crawled onto the impossibly soft bedroll.
Despite doing next to nothing for hours, exhaustion washed over him in waves.He thought he would pass out immediately.Instead he lay awake and stared into the moonlit hall.His room itself had no windows and the stuffy air of late summer was heavy inside.The movement of the boat down the river, which before had been barely noticeable, became sickening.The mass of food and wine in his stomach felt like he’d eaten a sack of hot coals and swallowed it down with curdled milk.
He tossed and turned.He threw off the quilt.He fluttered his linen undershirt to circulate air beneath the clinging fabric.It made no difference.Sweat still beaded on his forehead and his stomach ached.
The heat of the room, the jostling of the boat, the food sloshing in his stomach—an urge flung him upright and he scrambled to the pitcher to vomit into it, water sloshing grotesquely with the addition.When his stomach was empty, he crawled miserably back to the mat.After lying on it for a minute, he sat up again and laid the quilt out beside it, then lay on that instead.The solid support of the floor was both more comfortable and less hot.
He stared at the red-painted wall, longing for his straw mat and the ground’s cooling dirt beneath it, Deian and Tebhen’s forms nearby, the ceaseless lullaby of crickets right outside the door.All he could hear was the rush of water beneath the boat, carrying him far away from that life.
He woke to being pulled upright, the involuntary movement forcing him awake from surprised confusion more than anything, and he jerked away from the unfamiliar face beside him.
“Good,” someone said from up high.“Now that you’re awake, wash and meet me in the refectory.”
He turned groggily to the voice, which came from the priest standing above him—though he was already leaving out the doorway.The man at his side had moved away, over to the pitcher and bowl.
Ethyr rubbed his eyes, before memories of last night flung them wide open.“Wait, there’s—!”
The man was already pouring.Pristine, clear water fell from the pitcher into the bowl.Ethyr dragged a hand through his hair, gaze flitting around the room as he tried to order his addled thoughts.He was positive he had dumped his stomach there last night.
“Fresh water was provided this morning, Your Divinity,” the man told him.
Ethyr stared at him.
He gestured to the bowl, a new cloth draped over its side.“It is time to wake and wash, Your Divinity.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“What would you like to be called?”
