Page 162 of A Queen's Game
“Is someone mentoring you?” he asked with furrowed brows.
Elyse leaned against the doorway, the magic stealing what little energy she had. “Not exactly. Someone provided the readings, but I’ve been doing the mental exercises and reaching out to aithyr on my own.”
Sylas shook his head, looking back down at the notes. “We’re heading back to Chorys Dasi in a couple of weeks. If you have made it this far with your own practice and materials offered here, then you should stay in Satiros.”
“That’s still my plan.”
Sylas studied her face, her clothes, her slumped posture against the door. “Brynden will try to convince you to join us. He’ll try to make it work. If he does, you shouldn’t throw this away.” Sylas held up her notes. “I might be Brynden’s friend, but I know him and what he acts like. Despite the head pains, you look better—comfortable in your own skin. Don’t let him take it away.”
“Why are you so nice to me?” she asked, pushing off the doorway, turning towards the living room. “Especially after the Lydia comment.”
Sylas laughed and followed her. “You were right about her being the worst.” His hand fell on her shoulder. “Friends warn each other, even if it isn’t what they want to hear.”
Elyse turned to him, staring up into his face. Broad chested, Sylas was thicker than Brynden but still taller, and with his usual scowl, he looked like he was carved from stone—solid. But hisface softened, a smile hooking his lips. What blossomed between them was friendship, and with them leaving in a few weeks, it wouldn’t give it enough time to take root.
That evening would be one of their last to see each other, the thought making her chest ache. If given the time, perhaps Sylas could have been her friend like Marietta. “Will you stay and eat with me?”
“A chance to dine alone in your suite? Absolutely,” Sylas said, his smile settling into a smirk. “It’ll drive Brynden crazy.”
At the old table in her suite’s common area, Elyse sat across from Sylas. Though it was just them, Elyse felt at ease as they slipped into conversation.
Servants had delivered a meal of steamed fish with lemon, vegetables with chickpeas, crusty bread, olives, and boiled eggs. Elyse ate heartily after days of nothing. Sylas stared at her with curiosity.
“I thought you didn’t eat meat,” he said, gesturing to the fish.
“I don’t. Steamed fish is all I can stomach.” That was the truth. “I can’t stand the flavor of anything roasted or burnt, so apologies for the steamed everything.”
“A peculiar diet,” he teased. “Are you as picky with all your food?”
“I’m not picky,” she said defensively. “There’s a reason I can’t stomach it.”
“Enlighten me then.”
Elyse hesitated. “Do you promise not to tell Brynden? The reason is quite morbid.”
Sylas laughed as he took a bite. “First dining alone and now sharing secrets? I would love to keep it from him as payment for playing his nursemaid.”
Elyse snorted a laugh. Then the humor died in her throat, her tone growing series. “You seem to know of my mother.”
“I do.”
“How much do you know of her death?”
Sylas’ smile dropped, his gaze studying her. “She deteriorated physically, and then took her own life.”
Elyse nodded, feeling her throat tighten. “And I was the one to find her at the base of the tower.”
Blood drained from Sylas’ face, his sympathy knitting his features. Elyse couldn’t stand the sight of it, so she focused on pushing around the food on her plate. “My father made me stand at her funeral pyre until her body was nothing but ash. Do you know how long it takes for a body to burn?” She glanced at him, then back at the table. “Five hours.”
Sylas set down his fork, his full attention placed on her.
“My father told me to watch, to see what became of my mother because of magic. He told me if I were ever to practice, then that would be my future—that I would be someone’s burden and eventually reduced to ash.” Elyse swallowed hard at the memory. “The smell, Sylas. It was too close to meat. I couldn’t…” her voice tapered off.
Sylas offered her his hand across the table. She hesitated but placed her own in his—a silent comfort. Tears were quick to fall from her eyes.
“Though my father isn’t a very traditional male, I was to wear the traditional mourning veil through the burning. He also made me wear it for the mourning period after, not allowing me to have it washed.” Elyse’s voice guttered, and Sylas squeezed her hand. “He said the scent that clung to my veil was my reminderof what my future could be. Ever since then, anything burnt or roasted or of meat brings back those memories.”
Sylas rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, considering his words. “No one deserves what you went through, Elyse. Trauma builds on trauma, and you carry that with you every day. Despite the horrors your father has brought onto you, you still have the will to study magic, to gain your independence, and those prove you’re more resilient than anyone I’ve ever known.”
