Page 68 of A Queen’s Game (Aithyr Uprising #1)

Chapter Forty-Three

Elyse

F luffy white clouds drifted through the sky, offering a reprieve from the sun’s heat as Elyse crossed the courtyard.

Courtiers milled about in the shade, most ladies with a parasol to help with the hot weather, but she paid them no mind as she strolled past, even as someone called her name.

Gods, must there always be someone trying to talk to her in that damned palace?

Not acknowledging the call, Elyse picked up her pace, stepping into the winding garden paths.

Nothing positive ever rose from those conversations, just more fuel for whatever mocking they deemed entertaining for the day.

It was a shame Grytaine wasn’t born as a lady at court—she would have fit in well with the younger nobles.

Elyse could only imagine what they’d all have to say after her second failed betrothal, only lasting a couple of hours.

Brynden had—no, she wouldn’t let herself think of him.

Oh, but she could imagine Grytaine saying, “ First Keyain, now the Chorys Dasian? A shame, you’ll have to find suitors in Kyeari or Amgiys who might not have heard of your reputation.”

The worst part was she would be right—everything she said had a bit of truth that Elyse could see. The other courtiers’ words were the same, and she couldn’t handle hearing them out loud when she already thought about them every damn day. So instead, she fled.

Hydrangeas, rock roses, and other flowering shrubberies, thick with blooms, lined the paths as she ventured deeper to the heart of the Central Garden. After living in the palace for most of her life, she knew the labyrinthine layout and the best hiding spots.

Off the path, Elyse took a dirt walkway that wound through knee-height lavender, yarrow, and boxwoods that led to a gap in the towering willow tree and its low-hanging boughs.

Underneath the shade of the tree, Elyse leaned against the gnarled trunk, looking at the pond that stretched out to the other side.

The nearby frogs croaked as the willow’s leaves rustled in the breeze, and the pond’s water lapped onto the bank.

Elyse took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind, her body growing more relaxed.

The racing thoughts would help with nothing, and she needed to control them if she wished to become a mage.

“Fuck, Elyse.”

She jumped, whipping around to where she entered the willow to find a scowling Sylas standing there, breathing heavy.

“What do you want?” she snapped, giving him a matching scowl. The last thing she needed was another rumor about her and the Chorys Dasians.

“Brynden said you were fast, but—” Sylas leaned his hands on his knees, then stood up straight, smoothing his black shirt. “I called your name. Did you hear me?”

“I did, and I chose to ignore it.”

He shook his head, exasperated. “What is wrong with you? What’s with the attitude?”

“Attitude? What’s with stalking me?” She did have an attitude, but she didn’t want to talk about Brynden.

“I’m doing you a favor here,” he said, his scowl deepened.

“How is this a favor?”

From his pocket, he pulled out a piece of paper. “I’m no longer just Brynden’s nursemaid, but also his errand boy.”

“What is that?”

“A letter.”

“Why do you have a letter for me?”

Sylas closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. “Because he wanted to apologize.”

“For what? Being drunk and disorderly? For causing a scene that ended with another very public end to a betrothal?” Elyse should check her attitude, but frustration gave way as she spoke.

“You’re angry.”

“Yes, I’m angry.”

“At him? Or Keyain and King Wyltam?”

“Oh, my gods. Yes, all of them,” she snapped, crossing her arms. “I’m tired of being treated like an object, pushed from one hand to another. Brynden proved he would claim me just as they have.”

“Because he wants you as his wife.”

Wants . As in, still wants .

“Though I’m free of my father, Brynden will now have to ask King Wyltam for my hand, which he will not get.”

Sylas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s his next step in this asinine plan to win you back—to ask the King for your hand.”

King Wyltam would turn him down, undoubtedly, for she was an asset to his crown. Elyse bit her lip to keep from saying something she would regret and held out her hand.

Sylas crossed the space and gave her the letter with a softened expression. Was it compassion? Sympathy? Whatever it was, Elyse preferred the scowl that matched her own emotions. She cut him a look, pausing before unfolding the paper.

Like a sailor drifting lost at sea, shipwrecked and alone, my body thirsted—an aching need for water, though surrounded by it.

A goddess came, blessing me with her rain, quenching my thirst, and offering me salvation.

Oh, how parched I was, so close to death, yet unaware until she bestowed on me her gift.

I drank greedily, happy to take my fill and rejoice in the goddess’ blessing, but forgot to offer my gratitude, swept up in my own salvation. Within a blink, she disappeared, cast away by my negligence and selfishness, and again, I was alone in my suffering, with only myself to blame.

Having drunk the goddess’s blessed rains, to fill myself with her gift, to then have it taken away, made the parchedness return with fervor. To have and have lost, only then did I realize the depth of my gratitude.

So each day, I call upon the goddess. I pray to her to return, if not to quench my thirst, then to offer the thanks she so deserved.

To show her that I, a parched male, forgot myself and turned blind to that which was gifted.

To express the impact the goddess had made, though my time in her presence was short.

To let the goddess know that, each day, my aching need reminds me I have lost something divine, for I was swept up within myself.

So each day I pray to her.

And pray.

And pray.

Hoping the goddess deems me worthy of her presence again.

A lump formed in her throat, emotion choking her at the unexpected words of Brynden’s letter. “He’s poetic.”

“He’s dramatic,” Sylas said, a smile curling to one side of his mouth.

Elyse reread the letter. “He couldn’t have just written a normal apology?”

Sylas laughed, a full smile coming to his face. “Nothing he does is normal. Everything he does is extravagant and over the top. He wanted you to know that the only way to make peace with a goddess is through prayer, so he wrote one.”

She shook her head, trying not to smile. “But does he mean it? Does he regret being a drunken ass? For claiming me like every other male in my life?”

“In his own way, yes,” Sylas said with a shrug.

“By the way you left the library, he understood you were upset enough to call off the marriage, though he wasn’t sure exactly which part did it.

He’s been manic at the townhouse, replaying the entire day with me repeatedly, and I, unfortunately, know too much about you two now. ”

“Oh, my gods… how much did he tell you?” she said, blushing.

“You’re acting bashful when I found him headfirst in your skirt? When I was the one to retie your dress?”

Elyse clenched her eyes shut, sighing. “I try to block that part out.”

“Well, besides that, he shared what you said after we smoked—that you would love him forever if he could help you experience life, things that you missed,” he said, frowning as he looked out over the pond.

“I did say that.” And she had forgotten about it from all of that day’s excitement.

“He also told me about your singing—that goddess was an accurate name for you based on your voice alone,” his gaze slid to Elyse. “And he told me of the song you sang for him.”

“You know it too?”

“I do, and it’s surprising that you know it, that your mother remembered it enough to teach you.” Sylas was quiet, his face settling into a scowl. “He’s obsessed with you.”

She smiled, looking down at the letter. “And he still wants to marry me?”

“For now,” he said, considering his words. “Obsession isn’t love. It holds no assurance for tomorrow.”

Elyse nodded, her smile faltering. Obsession wasn’t love. “You’re his friend. Aren’t you supposed to tell me things he wants me to hear?”

“If he brings you to Chorys Dasi and grows bored, I’ll be the one to pick up the pieces.”

The words stung, ripping right into Elyse’s heart. “Ah, selfish motivations cloaked in kindness. Thanks for the lecture. You can go now.” Elyse gave him a leveling stare, gesturing to the path.

“It’s the truth, no matter how much it hurts to hear. I’m not your adversary.”

“Sure, but you are an ass, and you can leave.”

Sylas rolled his eyes, stalking back towards the path. He stopped between the boughs. “When can I get your response?”

“Response?”

“Brynden’s expecting you to write him back.”

“I didn’t realize that,” she said, biting her lip. Her love of reading didn’t translate to a love of writing. Gods, what would she say? Her heart raced at the thought of talking to him again, though I would be just through letters.

“Usually when someone writes you a letter, they expect a letter back.”

“Give me two days, and I’ll meet you here, under the willow.” That should give her enough time to figure out a response.

“Under the willow,” he said with a nod. “I’ll see you in two days, Elyse.”