Page 86 of Nemesis Mine
“I know. I know, we can’t—”
“It wasn’t me, Cy, it wasn’t me, I would never—”
“I know,” Cyrus whispered again. He didn’t have time to say all that he could have: that he was sorry he had believed it even for a moment, because he knew Max, and he knew them. That nobody would ever split them apart. He squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second, because they were burning for reasons unrelated to his magic; allowed himself the briefest and most precious of seconds to simplyfeelMax. Then he forced them open again, sensing Avexa’s charge over Max’s shoulder, and he ignored every instinct in him to let Max go.
Max whirled on his heel. A snarl and a clash of metal and they were at each other’s throats again, but Cyrus could not afford to stand and watch. There was still one champion unaccounted for, a few paces away. Phelia with her terrible power, her eyes fixed on Max. Before Cyrus’s gaze, those eyes turned a deep, bottomless black.
Cyrus would never let her, or Avexa, or anyone else in the realm touch Max again.
He took a step towards her, breathing in deeply and reaching inside for the place where his own magic curled up. Phelia looked up sharply, her attention shifting to Cyrus. He willed his magic to come to him, waiting for the familiar tingling heat to build at his fingertips.
But his magic hesitated at his call this time—a response to Phelia’s own power bristling in the air, he knew instinctively, remembering the way his connection to the ivy had cut off so abruptly when she attacked him. He had never felt anything like that, the sudden horrifying loss of something which made him Cyrus.I need you, he urged his magic, but it seemed to shrink in on itself.
Phelia looked him up and down, her expression knowing, almost pitying, like she sensed the way his magic shied away from him. He was no threat to her without it. She turned back to Max.
Out of the corner of Cyrus’s vision, he saw Max duck a killer blow. He twisted to return the strike but Avexa blocked it, cuffed him, made him double over with a grunt of pain. The noise cut through Cyrus, made panic singe along his nerves. He grappled for his magic again, held ontight, pushed all his care for Max into that connection, a desperate plea for help.
Heneeds you.
Finally he felt the connection, a rush of warmth through his body, racing towards his fingertips. But Phelia’s eyes were turning black again, and they were fixed on Max, and Cyrus was too late—
The sprites from the castle wall seemed to appear from nowhere. They swarmed Phelia in a sudden rush as Cyrus stared in shock, flitting about her face with a commotion of furious buzzing. She stumbled backwards with a cry, her hands coming up to protect her face. The tight, prickling sense of her magic in the air vanished with the break in her concentration.
Cyrus could not make sense of what he was seeing. These were nothissprites, they did not know him, how could they...?
His magic flared brightly within him, pulsing at his fingertips, and Cyrus understood. They did know him. The sprites knew the ivy, and the ivy knew Cyrus. They recognised him as kin, and they heard his plea.
Phelia, cursing and stumbling backwards, was still trying to fend them off. Tiny fingers beat at her temples and wrenched at her hair. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the sprites took to the skies, soaring high above the castle in a cloud of whirring wings.
Cyrus was ready. He lifted a hand, his eyes glowing a ferocious violet. Now that his magic had come—now that he let it truly loose for the first time, welcomed it so completely—itflowed through him in force. Cyrus had never felt his power so strongly before. It radiated from his skin.
The ivy seemed to be waiting for him. It sprang to attention, bursting free of the Federation tapestries and accepting his magic eagerly. Poised to attack.
And when it attacked, it attacked with glee. The great ivy shroud that coiled and curled around Durov’s mighty castle dug grasping fingers into the stonework andyanked, hard, until great lumps of stone began to fall and shatter, the ground quaking with the force of them. Screams rose all around, but they were lost to a deep distant rumbling as the castle began to uproot, his magic diving and ripping into every bit of it.
The violence took even him by surprise, the force sending Cyrus staggering back. His magic had never felt so alive before, like a living being separate from him. His back hit the wall; the stone trembled. He had called an earthquake after all.
Phelia and Avexa had frozen. Max stared at Cyrus, something close to wonderment in his expression. But when the turret before them began to groan and quiver at its foundations, Avexa turned to Cyrus. Her face twisted with rage as she stepped forward.
A thick swathe of ivy covering the wall behind Avexa reached out, too fast to track. It grabbed Avexa and Phelia, green tendrils snaking around their limbs and dragging them backwards, heedless of their screams of fury. They thrashed and kicked and lashed out, but there was no escape. The ivy reared and flung the champions againstthe turret with a resounding crash. They crumbled to the ground. Unconscious or dead, Cyrus did not care.
A hand on his arm dragged his attention away from the fallen champions. Max, beside him. They were the only ones left standing in the courtyard, a scene of carnage with the ground heaving beneath their feet and dust swirling in chaotic clouds, debris skittering off the sides of the turret and toppling around them. Through Cyrus’s sleeve, Max’s fingers felt warm.
Max seemed blind to the chaos. He just stood there, staring at Cyrus with that same wondering look that seemed out of place with the violence all around.
“You did this,” he said. “Cyrus, you’re—”
“We need to get out of here,” interrupted Cyrus. He turned to shove Max towards the wall, already calling for the ivy to come, to help them. But as he turned, a great cry arose from beyond the metal gate, where the people of Durov had crowded to stare in horror at the fight. The turret groaned overhead, shifting on its foundations. It began to list to one side, a terrible drunken tilt. A shower of dust crumbled down, followed by jagged chunks of stone. An ominous crack sounded as a larger lump broke off and fell, prompting a burst of panicked movement. But they were packed too tight for a quick escape. The cry grew louder and more alarmed, terror cutting through all else.
As Cyrus’s eyes fell on the metal gate, he saw a recognisable face, pressed up against the bars and white with fear. His fingers were wrapped around the rungs—an attempt to get back to them? To drag himself to safety, away from therelentless press of the crowd? It did not matter. Whatever the reason, Balthazar was standing directly underneath the turret, and he would be crushed within moments.
Balthazar had betrayed them. This was Balthazar’s fault. Cyrus should leave him to die.
But when Cyrus turned his head from the gate, he saw the way Max was staring at Balthazar, his expression stricken.
Without conscious thought Cyrus’s hand flew out. The ivy lunged to obey him. As the turret began to tip with another deep groan and the screams of the crowd reached a fever pitch, ivy shot out to seize the tumbling stones before they could fall, wrapping them in protective tendrils and drawing them tight against the turret. The turret wobbled uncertainly against the drag of gravity. Cyrus brought his other hand up, both palms outstretched, his teeth gritted. The stone was heavy, so heavy. His magic baulked at the weight of it, stretched to its limit. It hurt, every part of him aching like an overused muscle.
Through the strain Cyrus was dimly aware of Max’s face turning to stare at him, of the confused yells from the crowd. Balthazar’s face, a pale shocked smudge in the corner of his vision.
