Page 69 of Nemesis Mine
He wasn’t the only one facing change. Soulripper didn’t exactly get used to sharing her space with Lysander, but she hadn’t killed the other horse yet. Cyrus thought she secretly liked him.
However, Max had been right about the sprites. It seemedthey were jealous. Either that, or they simply didn’t believe that Max was good enough for him (possible; he was quite the catch). Cyrus scoffed at Max’s increasingly outlandish tales about them dive-bombing him as he walked to the front door or zooming through the kitchen window to drop dirt and worse into his food when his back was turned, until he caught them at it early one morning. Six sprites, carefully carrying a pair of embroidery scissors between them, tiny faces intently turned towards Max’s sleeping face on the pillow. When Cyrus shook his head at them—after a moment of honest deliberation, because he was a wrongdoer, after all, and he was quite curious to see exactly how much hair they planned to cut off—they pouted at him and sighed before acquiescing. The scissors were dropped to the tiled floor with a clatter as they sped away. Max startled awake at the noise, but he never did find out just how close he had come to modelling a buzz cut.
Max stayed at Cyrus’s lair as often as he could, but he still had responsibilities, places to go, events to be seen at, lives to save. He spent more time in Heliarth as the election loomed closer, throwing himself into the plans Balthazar set out for him with new vigour. It took up an annoying amount of his time, but Max insisted that they would get all the time back and more once Heliarth was secured for a further three years.
“This will be good for us,” Max had murmured when Cyrus sulked at him being called away from Ranragh for several days. He was sure Balthazar was picking the most distant events on purpose. “Once I win reelection, I’ll beable to steer champions clear of Ranragh and anywhere around it, keep them away from you. I can protect us.”
Cyrus eyeballed him. “I don’t need protecting.”
“Of course not,” Max demurred, idly tracing his fingers along the nape of Cyrus’s neck as they leaned against each other in bed. He had a habit of using a soothing tone when he was pretending to go along with something. Cyrus thought, vaguely, that he should argue; remind Max that whilst he might not be the terrible Earthshaker, he was a dreaded wrongdoer in his own right. Then Max kissed under Cyrus’s ear, and he melted, forgetting any arguments. “I’m just saying.”
Given the close calls in Heliarth and Arclee, it was best for their feud to lie low for a while. A month tiptoed by, and Cyrus let himself be seen in cities far from Max’s engagements, causing trouble that had nothing to do with his nemesis. The reception he received was much better these days; people recognised him on sight and were quick to get out of his way. On public stages and podiums across the land Max heaved a sigh and delivered well-practised lines when people asked him about the wrongdoer who had haunted his steps all summer. Earthshaker knew they were too well-matched. Yes, their last altercation had resulted in Earthshaker threatening his own town with obliteration. He was fearsome indeed. No, he had not gone through with it. Maximillian—so brave—had escaped his wrath and lived to fight another day.
Cyrus missed the sense of play, but not as much as he might’ve expected. He didn’t mind doing other things withhis time when he could walk into his lair and find Max waiting for him at the end of the day.
Towards the end of that first heady month of Cyrus-and-Max, kisses on the couch and falling asleep to soft breathing, Max was called to attend a champions’ debate in Dorre. An overnight stay was required.
“Come with me,” Max suggested. “Put on a disguise and meet me at the inn.”
It was reckless, but then so was everything they did together. So Cyrus abandoned his own plans (dropping stinking nannies into the water butts behind The Winter Moon tavern: nothing special) and met him there under the cover of night, the two of them giddy as boys as they smuggled Cyrus through Max’s bedroom window.
Through the evening, they lay together, sharing memories of their last wine-soaked visit to Dorre and tracing each other’s bodies with hands and lips. When morning came, Cyrus stirred to a kiss on his temple. “I’ll be back later.Behave.”
When Cyrus woke again, he rolled over with a stretch and observed the empty room, now drenched in sunlight. The Rising Sun offered large, airy lodgings with absurdly fluffy pillows and sleek satin drapes of deep yellow. A champion’s status certainly allowed for luxury. He entertained himself by poking through the fine linens piled in the cupboards, spying on passersby from the window, andclaiming Max’s room service by hiding behind the door and sticking out a hand to snatch it from the innkeeper with a faux-deep growl of thanks. He’d eaten his fill and was lounging on the enormous leather armchair with his feet on the bed when the lock suddenly turned.
He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Max. When Balthazar appeared instead, Cyrus jumped and hastily stowed his embroidery under his cloak.
Balthazar jumped too. Then he frowned.
“Oh,” he said. “You’re here.”
Cyrus wasn’t surprised by the unimpressed reaction. Max had filled him in on the aftermath of Heliarth. His escape had been blamed on Maximillian’s bumbling assistant. Over all the years of Max’s career, Balthazar had only ever been mentioned in passing before, but he’d earned himself a headline this time, his name and picture splashed out for all to see. Max had assured Cyrus the depiction was very unflattering. Cyrus laughed, but Max winced as he recounted the tale, his head in Cyrus’s lap, fingers carding through soft hair.
“Poor Bal,” Max had sighed. “He took it hard. I felt bad, but it was the only way...”
Now Balthazar stood motionless in the doorway, looking at Cyrus with tight-lipped disapproval like he wished he could erase him from the scene. Then he seemed to remember that he had come for a reason and closed the door, heading over to Max’s trunk at the foot of the bed. He began to sift through it without another word.
Cyrus chewed at his lip, watching him. Balthazar was a strange one. Cyrus didn’t care for him, of course, but Maxdid, even if it was a strange, impatient kind of caring. He wouldn’t have kept Balthazar around all these years if he didn’t.
Cyrus could try his hand at civility, for Max. He coughed to break the silence. “Max sent you to fetch something?”
Balthazar didn’t turn round, still kneeling by the trunk. “Maximillianasked me to bring some files regarding Heliarth’s recent building schematics, yes.”
New buildings like the brewery they’d brawled outside. Cyrus wondered if Balthazar was thinking of the last time they had met, down in the shadows of the gaol. Perhaps he wished that he had not acquiesced to Max’s wishes and engineered the escape. Perhaps Cyrus would be dead by now if he hadn’t.
When Balthazar stood up and moved back towards the door, leather portfolio stuffed under one arm, Cyrus said, “About Heliarth—”
Balthazar stopped in the doorway. “Please, spare me your thanks. I freed you for Maximillian’s sake only.”
Cyrus scowled. “I wasn’t going tothank you,” he said, taking care to infuse the words with as much disdain as they deserved. “It was your fault I was there in the first place. I was just going to say that your plan... wasn’t the worst one I’ve ever heard. It worked, anyway. Which was probably down to me.” That last part was added hastily, lest Balthazar get the wrong idea. Cyrus sniffed, affecting disinterest. “But the plan wasn’t completely terrible, I suppose.”
Balthazar eyed him. His gaze slipped down to the threads spilling out from under Cyrus’s cloak, a glimpse of a shiny bead. Cyrus pretended not to notice.
Then Balthazar looked him in the eye and said, bluntly, “You know he risks his place in this world with every night he spends with you.”
Hm. Straight to the point. There was fierce Balthazar again, the one Cyrus could almost respect.
“Max makes his own choices,” Cyrus said neutrally.
