Page 87 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus sucked in a shaking breath. He pushed harder, dredging his last reserve of strength. Slowly, the turret inched back until it was upright again. But the foundations were weak. It could still topple onto the people at any moment—would, as soon as Cyrus let go. His hands shook, vision going blurry at the edges.
“Max,” Cyrus choked out. Speaking took effort he could barely find. “Max, I can’t—”
“Go!” Max roared, so much louder than Cyrus could have managed. His powerful voice rang around the courtyard. “Get out, he can’t hold it for long!Move!”
Cyrus did not know how the crowd responded. Whether Balthazar took one last instruction from his Maximillian. He only knew that the will to keep the turret from falling was sapping everything he had. Precious seconds crept by, Cyrus’s breathing laboured and harsh. His head started to swim. His hands faltered.
Then, abruptly, Cyrus could hold on no longer. He didn’t know he had fallen to his knees until they collided with the cobbles below, barely registering the twin lances of pain ricocheting up his thighs or the cacophony of tumbling stone. He doubled over, panting into the dust.
Hands on his shoulders, dragging him up. Max got an arm under Cyrus’s and steadied him.
“Let’s get out of here. Come on, I’ve got you.”
Cyrus’s head wavered between his own chest and Max’s shoulder, his weight slumping sideways. Max wheeled around in a circle, looking frantically for an exit that wasn’t already blocked. The fall of the turret dragged more of the keep down, the roar of collapsing stone all around. The ground shook beneath their feet.
Cyrus had never known such exhaustion, bone deep and consuming, like the earth wanted to swallow him whole. But above the thunder of falling stone and screams, Max’s desperation grated against his senses.
He dragged his head up, fisting his hand in Max’s sleeve. “The wall,” he managed to get out, his voice hoarse and cracked. “Get us to the wall.”
“But it’s—”
“It’ll hold. Just do it.”
Max did as he bid, half dragging him. Cyrus tried to get his breathing under control, reaching for his magic. It twitched tiredly away from him. Cyrus swallowed and tried again, tightening his grip on Max to bolster himself.
We need you. Please, help us.
A moment’s hesitation. Then his magic stirred, just enough flooding back to him for one last push.
Cyrus laid a trembling palm flat against what was left of the high wall encompassing the courtyard. Ivy grasped for him, coiling and uncoiling in response to his need. A tendril wrapped around his wrist, nudging up against his fingers. Cyrus stared at it, tipping his head back to squint as the plant formed a straight line leading up and over the wall. Ivy butted at his hand. It would help them climb.
Which was good, because he needed it. Cyrus leaned into the wall, letting his forehead touch glossy green leaves.
For the first time, his magic seemed to flow back into him, like the plants were lending him strength. Drawing in a surprised breath, Cyrus stilled, trying to adjust to the sensation: strange, not unpleasant, like warm water trickling into his veins. When the warmth had settled into his core, he stepped back, becoming aware once again of Max’s tension beside him.
Max was staring at him, caught somewhere between awe and alarm. “What did you—”
“We need to climb.” Cyrus took another step back, gesturing towards the first foothold in the ivy. “It’ll help you.”
Max took in the height of the wall. “There’s no way that you’ll make it up there, not unless I—”
“I’ll be fine,” Cyrus interrupted. He brushed his hand against the ivy again. It leapt under his palm, nuzzling his fingers. “It will help me too.”
Max’s stare shifted to the greenery, still twining and twisting before them. Cyrus gave him a little push until he was standing before it. Max reached out to touch the ivy too.
Cyrus shivered. He’d felt that touch in his bones.
Max looked back at him, tentative. “Is it—will I—”
“It’s me,” Cyrus said, very soft. He met Max’s gaze, unblinking. “The magic is me. You’ll always be safe with it.”
Max hesitated for only a second more, his eyes searching Cyrus’s. Then he nodded decisively and turned back to the wall to place his foot in the ivy’s grip. It rushed to secure him, countless vines crisscrossing under his boot. Max took a breath and began to climb.
Cyrus waited until he was halfway up before he began to climb too. There was no chance of falling, no possibility that the wall would crumble beneath them. His magic would not allow it. They climbed up and over the edge, to safety, the plants under Cyrus’s command a watchful presence at their backs.
Chapter Twenty
Cyrus came to wrapped in Max’s cloak, his head nodding forward with every motion of the horse beneath him and a warm presence pressed close behind. Familiar cologne clung to the fabric of the cloak, rising valiantly above the smell of dry earth and horse sweat. A breeze teased his temple, trying to rouse him. Strong arms bracketed him on either side.
