Page 2 of Nemesis Mine
Wrongdoers didn’t bother with anything so democratic. Elections were for the honourable: If a wrongdoer saw an unclaimed town or city, they simply pounced, and the residents cursed Winter’s icy testicles for their bad luck. Cyrus himself had benefitted from a past wrongdoer challenging Ranragh’s original champion to a fight. They’d managed to off each other in the process. The whole thing was very grisly, apparently. For Cyrus, it was the perfect opportunity for a handsome young villain in search of a home renovation project, all without having to lift a finger.
Now Maximillian was encroaching on his space. Making plans to visit Cyrus’s town, encouraging Cyrus’s people to come out and see him. He probably expected them to fall at his feet and kiss his designer leather boots. Sprinkle petals in his wake, spritz rose-scented mist whichever wayhe turned lest he catch a whiff of the harbour, or of one of the more repugnant peasants.
Maximillian.Cyrus’s lip curled at the sight of that hated name. Memory sidled in, uninvited and unwelcome. The champion’s hair had glinted bronze in the sun that day. An odd detail to recall, considering that most associated memories were curdled by anger and humiliation, but perhaps that waswhyhe remembered. It was easier to think of the colour of the champion’s hair as he had leaned over the side of the boat and tilted his head than it was to remember how—
He dragged his thoughts away, slamming the memory down with a force of will that made his magic stir questioningly within him, tingling at his fingertips. It was in the past. There had been a—a mishap, but it was long gone. He doubted anyone would remember anyway.
Well. Anyone but Maximillian. Therein lay the issue.
No.He needed to stop thinking about it.
He should focus instead on exactly why Maximillian thought to come here. Was it a direct challenge for Ranragh? It felt like one, though Maximillian already had a city to call his own. Heliarth, in the sunny southlands, was large and rich and—Cyrus’s teeth gritted so hard his jaw began to ache—had a much grander reputation. Maximillian had been the elected champion there for years now. Cyrus had seen the articles inAthaca News, the fawning reports, the occasional self-congratulatory interview.
Perhaps none of that mattered. Perhaps Maximillian simply wanted more, and this was a declaration of his intent to take Ranragh for himself on top of everythingelse. Not even a challenge he had bothered to bestow in person.
Doubt crept up Cyrus’s spine. Was that because—it couldn’t be that—
Surely his reputation preceded him? The deadly Earthshaker, a wrongdoer to be feared? Yes, it had been nearly fifteen years since the Eborre earthquake, and he didn’t tend to go out of his way to pick showy fights to demonstrate his prowess. As it happened, he’d been keeping a low profile of late, but—
“We got a Maximillian poster, look!”
The voice wrenched him from his spiralling thoughts. A group of kids had stopped directly below to stare up at the poster. Ranragh’s usual adolescent scene, gangly limbs and gormless expressions. If Cyrus was in the mood for fun, he would have taken the opportunity to drop something on their heads.
One of the teenagers gazed up at Maximillian’s image and sighed dreamily.
“I love him,” said another, quite seriously.
A younger girl frowned. “Does that mean he’sourchampion now, then? You know, like the town champion?”
The first scoffed out a laugh. “Don’t be thick, Imogen, we don’t have a champ. We’ve got a wrongdoer.”
“Yeah. I know.” Cyrus had to strain his ears to catch the response, so quiet was her voice. He preened at the trepidatious note. It was just the balm he needed; ointment to soothe his soul. Foolish, to doubt himself.
“No one cares about him, though,” said one of the boys.
Cyrus’s preening screeched to an abrupt halt.
“Yeah.” The first girl again, her eyes fixed on the poster. “Doesn’t exactly compare, does he. He’s like, fifty, anyway.”
He was thirty-four!Thirty-four!Maximillian was the same age; Cyrus had read as such in one of his damnable interviews! He felt faint with horror.
“I bet Maximillian is going to hunt him down and get rid of him,” said the boy. “That’s probably why he’s visiting.”
“I reckon it’ll be something to do with the championship elections coming up.” A different voice, contemplative this time. “My mum says they always put on a bit of a show when they know a vote’s on the way.”
“Not like he’ll be too bothered about coming across our wrongdoer.”
An offensive snort of a laugh. “Earthshaker never picks fights with champions, have you noticed? Probably knows he doesn’t stand a chance.”
Their voices faded as the group moved on. Cyrus was left staring at the imprint of the footprints in the dirt, his ears ringing with the echo of their laughter. Slowly, his gaze travelled back up, to the knowing curl of Maximillian’s mouth.
Damn him. Damn him to the hottest hells of Summer, to Autumn’s withering decay. Cyrus despised him. Heloathedhim. His fingers itched to tear the poster down, to rip it into a thousand tiny bits of nothing and throw it to the sea. More than that, Cyrus longed to lay his fists into the man himself, to watch that smug expression splinter under his knuckles. A dagger to his throat, his arrogant heart, would never be enough. Cyrus wanted to hurt him, to see him bleed and beg in the dust. Just as he’d wanted since—
He forced a shaking exhale. No, he had to keep hold of his temper, difficult as it was. Maximillian’s violation of Cyrus’s town, of his beloved mural, was not to be taken lightly. But there were other elements at play here. A bigger picture he could not afford to overlook.
He climbed down from the rafters. The twinge in his back had returned with a vengeance, making him wince as he jumped to the floor of the barn, still paved with ornate swirling tiles from its days as a place of worship. The church had been dedicated to the goddess of spring; under a thick coating of dust the tiles were pale pink and long-faded white, once-pretty blossoms unfurling out from the altar. Cyrus brought his heel down harder than he needed to as he left. The crack wasn’t satisfying enough to make up for the new ache in his foot.
He kept his head down as he hurried back through the town. An alarmed squeal from the wooden bridge ripped through the air as Cyrus started up the mountainside path to his lair, but he didn’t turn. He wasn’t in the mood to appreciate a bog-bedraggled peasant anymore.
