Page 13 of Nemesis Mine
The thought didn’t strike until later that evening, when Cyrus arrived back at his lair ready to sink into a hot bath scented with his own lavender oil.
Funny, but in some ways, he and Maximillian were driven by similar motivations. Love and support, fear and deference; when it came down to it, they both sought respect. And, it seemed, they were both on damage control when it came to their reputations.
Cyrus considered the thought. He didn’t care for it. Any comparison to Maximillian was an insult; a travesty. He wanted nothing to do with that brash, boorish creature except to wet his blade with Maximillian’s blood.
His thoughts lingered with the champion through his bath and into the night, all the same.
Three weeks passed. Maximillian’s tour took him to the south coast. Cyrus didn’t follow—the wrongdoer Kere hadcaused another hold-up on the Beks passageway by somehow creating an alliance with the goblins who still lived in the caves worming through the central mountains. They’d been causing chaos, swarming travellers and plundering wagons. “Wrongdoer Rampage in the Mountains,”Athaca Newswailed. “Goblins Develop a Taste for Toes!” Admirable. Cyrus wished he’d thought of it. He hoped the goblins got a good bite of Maximillian’s ankle when he passed through.
He opted to spend his time preparing for their upcoming confrontation instead. The trees around his lair developed a patchwork of scars from the number of daggers he hurled into them, his sprites watching from a safe distance and occasionally fluttering around his head in alarm when he targeted one of their pines. Sometimes, when he had been particularly rough, his magic pulsed at him petulantly until he touched a reluctant fingertip to the wounded bark to help the tree heal. It wasn’t like there was anybody around to see. The sprites didn’t count, even if they did hum happily around him afterwards.
When Maximillian’s tour brought him back towards the north, Cyrus couldn’t resist one last scouting trip. Maximillian was due to visit the small town of Marinhold on the eastern coast. The wrongdoer Horkar, who was built like a bull and best avoided by anyone with sense, had been residing there for many years. Surely he would put up a better fight.
But Maximillian was early. By the time Cyrus arrived, he found Marinhold jubilant and Horkar bound hand and foot, left trussed outside the town hall and ready to becarted off to face the Federation’s judgement for his crimes. Cyrus stared at him from behind a tree, thrown by the sight. He didn’t care for Horkar, but he was a strong fighter with biceps like boulders. Maximillian must be skilled to have taken him down. It was good that Cyrus had seen this; a reminder that he had to be careful. Maximillian had managed to hold on to Heliarth for fifteen years with no magic. He had to havesomeprowess.
Locating the champion was easy since excitable cheering trailed his every move. Cyrus followed the irritating noise to a copse of willows along the riverbank. Maximillian, the show-off, was busy saving somebody’s cat from a tree.
Cyrus lurked behind an uneven stone wall to watch as he descended the tree, one-handed, the cat tucked securely to his broad chest. He wore formfitting leather trousers that sadly confirmed Cyrus’s hopes for a flat arse were unfounded, and a navy shirt with one corner tucked artfully into his waistband. It billowed in the breeze as he jumped the final stretch. The neckline seemed improbably deep. Cyrus imagined Maximillian deliberately slitting the fabric to show off more of his chest. Like anyone wanted to see his stupid nipple anyway.
“Here you go,” Maximillian said as he reached the ground, holding the cat out to a nearby woman before stepping back. There were tear tracks smudged across her grubby cheeks as she held the creature to her chest. The cat, unlike everyone else in the immediate vicinity, looked unimpressed.
“You saved her,” the woman said. For all her tears, she didn’t appear to have eyes for her pet anymore. She was toobusy looking at Maximillian—mooning, Cyrus might be tempted to call it if he was in an uncharitable mood, which he was. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Your thanks today is enough,” Maximillian declared. “I need no prize. To assist those in need is my calling.”
Cyrus would’ve gagged, had he an audience. Pretty words to match his obnoxiously pretty face, but the woman was not deterred. She stepped forward, letting the cat down. She didn’t notice as it darted back towards the tree, too occupied with reaching up to whisper into Maximillian’s ear.
Cyrus had come here to spy on Maximillian’s skills, not watch him flirt. Frustrated, he selected a pebble from the ground, then hurled it at the woman. For all his dagger practice, his aim was off. The pebble caught Maximillian on the cheek instead, provoking a yelp that didn’t sound very champion-like.
Oops. Cyrus swallowed a snort of laughter as he ducked behind his wall, though not before he saw Maximillian shake the woman’s hand off his arm and look around with narrowed eyes.
“Who dares to attack the mighty Maximillian?” the woman trilled as the crowd started to peer around in confusion, looking for the assailant.
Cyrus couldn’t resist sneaking one last glance around the edge of the wall. He was just in time to see Maximillian rise from a crouch, the pebble in his hand. He frowned down at it, caressing the smooth surface with his thumb. Then he looked up.
Cyrus wasn’t quick enough in ducking back. Their eyes met. The recognition was instant.
His heart lurched. Maximillian would open his mouth, any second now. He would shout out, raise his finger, and point. He would draw his sword. Force a confrontation, here, where Cyrus hadn’t planned it, where he hadn’t prepared.
But he didn’t. The frown deepened, but it was more thoughtful than accusatory. Then he blinked and long lashes swept over blue, cutting the contact between them.
It was all the chance Cyrus needed. Fool, to stay as long as he had. He set off at a sprint for the outskirts of the village, where Soulripper paused her grazing to watch him approach with judgemental eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Cyrus griped as he swung himself up onto her back. “Like you could do any better. Can’t even pick up a stone. No thumbs.”
Soulripper huffed, which was probably a threat againsthisthumbs if he didn’t shut up and ride. Cyrus was getting better at reading her. He huffed right back and tightened his grip on the reins, trying to push Maximillian’s gaze from his head. But the memory of that strange, thoughtful frown outstayed its welcome all the same.
The next day, Cyrus readied himself briskly but methodologically. Three daggers in his belt: his favourite, a backup, and a backup for the backup.
His best cloak. A slick of grease in his hair. A touch of concealer under his eyes, because lately the shadows seemed constant, and a thin swipe of kohl across the lash line for the drama.
Cyrus stared at himself in the mirror, holding his own gaze. There was a steeliness there that he was glad to recognise. He had been playing around for too long; it was time to cut the bullshit. Maximillian had to die before he tried to set the people of Ranragh simpering around him, and he was due in little over a month. It had to be now.
He reached Arclee as the light was fading to dusk. Cyrus couldn’t imagine why the champion still harboured some sentimental affection for the place—the backwater town was just as drab and dull as it had been upon his last visit—but no matter. Cyrus would fix that for them.
He left Soulripper at the edge of a clearing a short walk from the village, stealing a quick pat on her nose for luck before she could sink her teeth into him. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself. Not because he wasnervous; of course he wasn’t. That would imply he had reason to be nervous. Just—
Memory leaked at the edges of his mind, unbidden. Maximillian leaning over the side of the boat, the sun an aggressive halo behind him. Cyrus’s eyes stung from the river water and the cold and the deep, curdling humiliation—
