Page 88 of Nemesis Mine
He didn’t remember obtaining a horse. He did remember staggering away from the remains of the castle, his legs weak beneath him. Without the presence of his magic to prop him up, exhaustion had returned with force. He’d stumbled along with Max’s help, making the most of the chaos and confusion to disappear into the shadows. The last he remembered, they’d been in Durov’s outer town, Max’s face pinched with stress and Cyrus’s back sinking against the rough wall of a narrow alleyway when his legs could carry him no further.
Cyrus groaned, shifting in the saddle. Max immediately tugged on the horse’s reins to slow down—not that they were going very fast to begin with.
“Cy? Are you awake?”
“Mmm.” Cyrus brought a hand up to massage his head. He no longer felt like he might keel over, but he was still tired, each blink an effort.
But he was here, alive, and Max was with him. Lifting his head to squint around, Cyrus saw barren grasslands pocked with small hills and mounds, bathed pink in the light of dawn. There was no civilisation in sight, just a sparse woodland stretching out to the west and the faint burble of a river somewhere nearby. He didn’t recognise any of it.
“Where are we?”
“Not far north of Durov,” Max answered. Sensing Cyrus’s spike of alarm, he added, “We’ll keep putting distance between us and the Federation. I’m taking the long way round, following the river north rather than using the main track through the Beks. And I’ve kept an eye out. We haven’t been followed.”
“How long was I out?” Cyrus asked.
Max exhaled. It stirred Cyrus’s hair.
“You were unconscious for nearly twelve hours,” he said quietly.
Of course. It was dawn, and Max’s voice was worn with exhaustion. He must have wondered whether Cyrus was ever going to wake up.
“And the horse?” he asked, reaching out to run a hand along coarse hair. Piebald, black and white splotches creeping up his neck. His ears twitched at Cyrus’s touch as he plodded tiredly on.
“Stole him from a stable in Durov. Could only get one, you were out of it.”
Huh. Max could add “horse thief” to his growing list of crimes. “Maybe those champions were right. Iama bad influence on you.”
He expected a snort, but Max didn’t answer right away. “I just wanted to get out as soon as possible,” he muttered.
Cyrus stroked the horse again. He didn’t acknowledge the pang in his chest at the thought of Soulripper abandoned in the paddock where he’d left her. It was silly. She’d be fine, she’d get herself free or someone else would take her on. She probably didn’t care one bit.
Max stifled a yawn. “You should rest,” Cyrus said, preempting any argument with a pointed, “I think the horse needs a rest too.”
There was a pause as Max absorbed this. Then he sighed.
“Fine. There are some trees up ahead. We can stop there.”
In the shadow of the small copse of maple trees, Cyrus slid gingerly from the horse’s back. His body ached all over, however long he’d slept. He paused to pat the animal’s neck and stroke the velvety nose as Max searched through the saddlebag. The horse harrumphed at him and nudged Cyrus’s shoulder.
“I’ll grow you some grass,” Cyrus told the horse in an undertone. Warm brown eyes regarded him solemnly. “Nice and lush.”
If he could. The intuitive way the ivy had responded to him back in Durov was still so clear in his mind, but so too was the memory of kneeling in that courtyard feeling drained to his very core. Cyrus could sense his magic, not unreachable, but quiet. Distant, somehow. What if he had damaged that connection somehow?
Max interrupted the thought, turning to survey their little clearing. “I’ll make a fire,” he said.
Cyrus glanced at his tired face. “You sit down for a bit. I’ll get the firewood.”
He ventured a little further afield, glad of the chance to stretch his legs. Dry wood was easy to find, twigs snapping hard and brittle beneath his boots. Stooping down, Cyrus gathered an armful, only to jump when he lifted a piece of wood and a sprite darted out from beneath it. It flitted back to its companions, clustered in the shadows of a maple tree’s hollow. Cyrus straightened up, staring at the sprites as they observed him.
Strange, the way their kind had leapt to his aid in Durov. He’d known of their affinity for woodland flora, of course, but he hadn’t realised that the species’ connection to him ran more deeply than the gratitude of a specific family of sprites for saving a particular glade.
But then, he supposed, he’d never really given his magic the chance to show him all it could do. He’d been too embarrassed, angry to be lumbered with a power he viewed as weak.
Cyrus looked around. His eyes fell upon the remains of an ancient trunk, moss and green shoots clambering over it. The tree itself had fallen long ago, half moulded into the earth and thick with fleshy oyster mushrooms.
He hesitated, worry creeping back to the surface as he thought of the falling turret, the ivy straining against it. What if he’d pushed his magic too far?
Well, he would never know if he didn’t try. Taking a breath, Cyrus squatted beside the trunk. He stretched his free hand out to hover over the trunk and closed his eyes.
