Page 3 of Nemesis Mine
Even when he reached his lair, Cyrus couldn’t get Maximillian’s stupid smug face out of his mind.
He pushed open the door, barely pausing to admire its design. He’d had it hand carved to look like a snarling mouth by nervous craftsmen, because he was all about originality (and productivity—he’d opted to loom silentlybehind as they toiled, which did wonders for their work ethic). It didn’t cheer him up as it usually did.
Nor did the day’s offerings, left piled on the kitchen counter after he’d collected them from his doorstep early that morning. His thoughts turned to sulky speculation as he wondered what kind of gifts the people of Heliarth showered upon Maximillian. The most exciting thingCyrushad ever received was a cake made by the local baker when he first moved into his lair, an ill-fated attempt to curry favour and “welcome” him to the area.
Cyrus had sneaked into the man’s hovel in the dead of night and force-fed him the entire thing whilst his wife sobbed in a corner. But that was only because he didn’t much like carrot cake. It didn’t mean they should stoptrying.
Today’s offerings looked much the same as usual—eggs, cheese, bread, a bottle of milk. Cyrus scowled down at them. He wasn’t hungry, but even if he was, he wouldn’t want this. Where was the excellent vintage of wine, the triple-tiered lemon cake with his name spelled out in swirly icing, the finest cut of meat from the town’s monthly hog roast?
Agitated, he turned his scowl on the rest of his lair. His mouth twisted at the clutter. When he’d first moved in, the intention had been to keep it minimalist throughout. The natural cave was deep enough to accommodate a spacious home, with a high domed ceiling and antechambers he’d repurposed as a walk-in wardrobe and bathroom respectively. A small group of labourers had been threatened into bringing the cave up to the living standards his status asRanragh’s resident wrongdoer demanded. Wooden beams for extra support; handsome black and white tiles for the floor, which created a pleasingly ominous thump under his favourite boots. He’d even forced masons to painstakingly chip a porthole window so he could enjoy some natural light.
Sleek monochrome decor: That had been the plan. “Modern villain,” he’d thought to call it. But it wasn’t long before his innate messiness began to bleed through. Sometimes literally, as he’d recently been trying out a new hobby (pickling thumbs).
Now, his possessions were scattered across any available space. Wanted posters he had saved for their flattering depictions of his bone structure were affixed to the walls, alongside his own abstract paintings from his “misunderstood creative” phase. His living space had escaped the worst of his tendency to drop items as his mood took him, but the bedroom floor had developed a lumpy carpet of discarded clothes with shades of black and grey heaped over the occasional flash of ludicrously bright pink or yellow. The burnished blade of a dagger glinted from beneath a discarded sock, awaiting the chance to bite into an unsuspecting toe. Hundreds of tiny beads lurked in the tufts of his sheepskin rug, casualties of his embroidery attempts.
He needed to tidy up. The thought was abhorrent. Cyrus turned on his heel with a huff. A distraction was required, but he would not find the answer here.
As usual, he ended up in his vegetable patch, tucked out of sight along the narrow path that led to his door and meandered around the curve of the mountain. It was muchneater than inside the lair: meticulous rectangles of soil lining four raised beds set around a fifth bed in the centre, where bamboo canes coaxed up a crop of cucumbers. The scents of rosemary and mint hung in the air, undercut by the pungency of garlic growing further down the slope.
Gardening soothed him, as it so often did. The restless thrum of his thoughts settled into something more manageable as Cyrus tended to the spinach and pulled up some spring cabbage, piling the leafy greens in the wicker basket he kept for harvesting his produce. A curious sprite, no bigger than his thumb, alighted on the back of his hand as he checked on the carrots beginning to nose at the earth, a blur of pale lilac skin and iridescent wings until it settled on his wrist. Sprites weren’t interested in eating his vegetables—they seemed to spend much of their time guzzling tree sap or whatever sweet substance they could lay their tiny hands on—but unfortunately theywereinterested in Cyrus himself. He shook the creature off his hand in annoyance and straightened up, gritting his teeth against the pull in his back.
He turned to survey his kingdom. Everything in order amongst his vegetables, as it should be, and the flowers dotted around the path looked bright and healthy. The creeping buttercup and honeysuckle twining around the entrance to his lair would benefit from a spot of tidying, though. The honeysuckle had grown too bold, making an ambitious bid to stretch out over his doorway.
Cyrus concentrated on it, closing his eyes and calling his magic to him. His skin tingled as his power stirred within, almost ticklish, as though the magic was crawlingout of his bones. Warmth built up behind his eyes, a familiar signal that the usual grey of his irises was shifting to a vivid purple. Fixing his attention on the plant, he felt the honeysuckle yield to his will, timidly retreating from the door and reshaping itself obediently around the frame instead.
Satisfied, he opened his eyes. He glanced around, but the other plants hadn’t overgrown their boundaries. His magic still brimmed under the surface of his skin, restless.
The thing was, Cyrus couldn’t really call earthquakes.
Nobody could ever know. This magic—soft magic, plant magic, magic that would have marked him out as achild of Springin the old days—wasn’t the kind that could ever be associated with a wrongdoer like him.
No, if a wrongdoer had magic, it needed to be formidable. There was a wrongdoer down in the southlands who could rain hellfire. There was another in Athaca’s capital, Durov, who could whip storm clouds into a frenzy, complete with thunder and lightning.
It used to be accepted that magic was passed down by the four gods of old, each of whom had given birth to a different season. Summer’s children might be born with the power to manipulate light and heat, as though they could call the sun right down from the sky. Perhaps magic originating under Winter’s rule could manipulate water and bring about frosts, whilst offspring of Autumn might find themselves capable of inducing darkness or withering away at something once living.Thatwould be a power more befitting of a wrongdoer, but alas. He had not beenso fortunate. He was stuck with Spring magic, and all the delicacy that came with it.
At least the old beliefs hadn’t stood the test of time. Magic was rare—always had been—but sometimes a power emerged that did not seem to align with any of the four gods, no matter how people tried to rationalise it. In days gone by, those with such gifts were forced to hide in fear that their existence would be deemed an aberration. But as Athaca’s cities grew and trade expanded, whispers behind cupped hands turned to gossip travelling the island’s networks for timber and clothing and food. There were simply too many magic users with abilities that couldn’t be explained. People began to question the old beliefs, and over time, those beliefs faded. These days, bored indifference had replaced the riots of decades gone by, which was a shame. Cyrus would have enjoyed the looting.
But bored indifference probably wouldn’t last if people got wind of an allegedly terrifying wrongdoer with gentle, nurturing plant magic. Other than to his own family, Cyrus had shown precisely one person his true gift—a child close to his age at the time, a boy with a shock of black hair and bright, smiling eyes who had stared down into Cyrus’s palm as he held his breath and coaxed the soft petals of a daisy into full bloom. The boy had looked at the flower, looked at Cyrus, and the snort of laughter had taken him by surprise.
Cyrus didn’t like surprises. He didn’t like being laughed at either. But it was fine, because the boy hadn’t laughedwhen he was tied to a rickety little sailboat and pushed out to sea before Cyrus went home for his dinner. So they were even, really.
Young as he was back then, that day gave way to a realisation: Nobody was going to fear a wrongdoer whose big bad magical power was to make flowers grow.
The Eborre earthquake had been sheer luck. Cyrus had still been a student at the Wrongdoers’ Guild at the time, where young villains learned the ropes in classes designed to directly defy those at the Champions’ Federation. Where the Federation’s academy taught its starry-eyed youths “How to Be a Hero” or “For Altruism: How to Put Others First,” the Guild helped young wrongdoers hone their skills through “How to Be an Arsehole” or “For Yourself: How to Screw Other People Over.” He’d begun his training suppressing his powers and pretending to be magicless. It was easier that way, and it wasn’t like he was alone. There were plenty of wrongdoers and champions without magic, even if those born with powers did seem to drift into either camp for better or worse.
Then: the Eborre earthquake. He hadn’t planned to claim it. Cyrus had found himself in a sticky situation with a young champion on the outskirts of the great northern city. He’d been losing the fight, which came as a shock to him, because he was renowned for his prowess with his daggers in “Slice Up Your Enemies”workshops. The champion had backed him up against the forest bordering Eborre’s eastern flank, where a sizable crowd had gathered to watch. Panic had started to surface with every relentless swing of his opponent’s club. His tight control over his magic slipped. The forest heard his instinctive cry for help and his eyes flared bright purple, like the first violet he’d coaxed to life as a child.
But before the trees could do anything, the earthquake happened. Cyrus was left standing on trembling ground with ferocious glowing eyes and the crackle of magic in the air. There had been screaming, a lot of it, and the champion cried, “You did this!Earthshaker!” before a chunk of the city wall collapsed onto his head, and that was that.
Far be it from Cyrus to miss an opportunity. To his peers at the Guild (not friends; wrongdoers didn’t have friends) he claimed to be a late bloomer. These days, when an earthquake occurred, Cyrus simply maintained that something had angered him. Athaca was prone to the odd rumble; nothing like the great quake that had taken half of Eborre down, but enough. It had proven surprisingly easy to feign.
Nobody knew the truth of his powers now, only his parents, and as far as they were concerned, Cyrus was a professional florist who had moved across Athaca in search of better weather. They rarely saw him, and they had no reason to associate their green-fingered son with the dread Earthshaker they might read about upon occasion inAthaca News. Those scribbled depictions in the news parchments never did him justice anyway.
Cyrus looked up at the wildflowers that spouted from the cracks in the mountainside above his door, red valerian and rock cress and pale tufts of baby’s breath. A stem of valerian reached for him, clustered ruby heads nodding infriendly greeting. He reached up and plucked a flower, rolling it between finger and thumb as he examined it. Then he squeezed the petals to a soggy crimson pulp and flicked it away as he stepped inside.
The unfortunate soul chosen to deliver Cyrus’s daily offerings to him was also responsible for leaving him a copy ofAthaca News. Sometimes Cyrus made the effort to read it, particularly if the headline hinted towards a disaster or misfortune he’d enjoy hearing about. Other times he used it for kindling, or to practise his artistic skills by scribbling all over the champions’ faces.
After a hasty meal—green leaf salad from his garden with sage and oregano dressing, and a hunk of crusty sourdough he knew for a fact didn’t come from the best bakery in Ranragh—he sat down on his couch to read, legs sprawled out over the firm black leather. Most of it was champion-centric drivel. Boring, boring, boring. He flipped through details of a charity feast where champions had offered meet-and-greets to raise funds for needy children. Cyrus hated needy children. There was an opinion piece on whether rare magical shapeshifting ability indicated selkie blood somewhere in the lineage, even though selkies had long since joined the ranks of dragons and the like, in that the only recent sightings came from the questionably senile. A mother had written in to the regular agony aunt section, worrying that her daughter displayed natural wrongdoer tendencies. Good for her. Down inDorre, another champion had brokered an exclusive deal withAthaca Newsfor coverage of her wedding, where she coincidentally happened to name-drop the catering company and the designer of her wife’s wedding dress. Typical.
