Page 49 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus shouldn’t. His side throbbed with a stark reminder of exactly why he shouldn’t. But it didn’t matter. Somehow, against the odds, he did.
“My assistant will personally oversee his detainment,” Maximillian said. He held out his arm, gesturing Balthazar forward, and looked at him.
Balthazar’s expression was unreadable. For a second, Cyrus wondered if he might refuse.
But then he stepped up beside Maximillian and inclined his head in a short, terse nod. Kneeling there in the dirt, fighting with every breath to keep his eyes open, Cyrus saw why. Like Cyrus, Balthazar could see past thefaçade Maximillian presented to the world. He could see the plea for help in those eyes. And Balthazar might detest Cyrus, but he loved Maximillian more. He would never refuse him, not when Maximillian truly needed him.
A hand landed on his arm, tugging him roughly to his feet. Cyrus jerked, a hiss escaping from between clenched teeth.
“Get up.” Balthazar’s voice was harsh. His fingers dug into Cyrus’s bicep.
Wadding was pressed to his wound, a bandage wrapped about his waist to keep it in place. His arms were pulled forward and rope knotted around his wrists, pulled tight enough to hurt. Cyrus felt every jostle as two men moved around him, checking him for weapons. An elbow brushed his side, perilously close to the wound, and he failed to stifle a hiss of pain.
Balthazar held up a hand. “Keep your distance. Wouldn’t want him to die on us before we reach the gaol.”
He sounded like he was hoping for that very outcome. But Cyrus knew the truth of it. He held on to that truth as somebody yanked on the rope around his wrists, pulling him forward.
Maximillian, despite what had happened today, did not want Cyrus dead. And so Balthazar could never let that happen.
He would hate every moment of it. But he would help.
Chapter Twelve
The church on the hillside was not a holiday home for a city official. It had been repurposed as Heliarth’s gaol, tucked up on the tallest hill where miscreants could be dealt with far away from the sprawling city below.
Cyrus wavered on his feet by the time he reached it, sweating and cold all at once, his bandage already soaked through. He was marched around the back of the building, following a path that narrowed until it was little more than a thin dirt track leading to an iron gate topped with spikes. His guards had not spoken to him throughout the journey, other than to deliver brusque commands to keep going whenever he slowed. They kept their silence now, as did Balthazar. He’d barely glanced at Cyrus the whole time.
They passed through the gate and into the church, the temperature immediately dropping. Cyrus shivered, clammy and uncomfortable as sweat cooled at his nape and the small of his back. The air tasted of old stone and rain. Their footsteps echoed as they took a winding staircase to a floor that was colder still, the only light provided byguttering lamps bracketed on each wall at regular intervals. Cells were marked by iron gates, only a few occupied. A bored-looking attendant stood up from his slouch on an upturned crate and stretched, the ring of keys at his belt jangling noisily. He eyed Cyrus with surprise, then alarm.
“Oi, doesn’t he cause—”
“Yes, he can bring about earthquakes,” Balthazar said shortly. His hand was already outstretched for the keys. “No, he is not about to bring the building down. He’s injured. Maximillian stabbed him.”
Cyrus gritted his teeth. He wished, more than anything, that Balthazar wasn’t right about his magic. As they passed through the city, jeering faces turned greedily in his direction and chants of Maximillian’s name chasing after him, he had tried to reach again for the power he’d felt surge so instinctively when Maximillian wounded him. But now that the initial shock had passed, his magic had retreated into some deeper part of him, coiled up where he could not access it. His strength was too depleted. There was no power to call to his fingertips, not until his body recovered.
“Why didn’t he finish him off?”
“It is not up to you to question our city’s champion. The keys.”
The gaoler pursed his lips, hitching the ring up and prising a key from it. “He can have the cell round the corner, at the far end,” he muttered. “Don’t want him nowhere near me.”
One of Cyrus’s guards pressed a hand to the small of hisback to get him to move. The door of the far cell screeched as it opened, the spikes at the bottom scraping along well-worn grooves in the stone slab. Balthazar stood aside. “In,” he said.
Cyrus summoned the darkest look he could muster. He longed to resist, even if only to make Balthazar lose his cool. But the wound burned and throbbed and he knew he would not win. He stepped stiffly inside, his teeth grinding so tightly his jaw ached. The cell was small, a bare dirt floor with a narrow wooden bed along one side and a slit for a window, too high to reach and crisscrossed with thin metal bars. On one wall an engraved sun rose, and on the opposite it set, a throwback to more pious times. Had these cells always been tucked away beneath the church, a place to throw those who did not pray hard enough?
He turned back towards his captors. Balthazar had not yet fully closed the door. They stared at each other for one long, tense moment. Cyrus wordlessly held his wrists out.
Balthazar looked down at the rope, each rough knot spitting coarse fibres. They were tied too tightly, bloodless white ridges biting into the skin below.
Balthazar surveyed this in judgemental silence. Then he stepped back, turning his face away from Cyrus. Under a burst of irritation, Cyrus was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t counted on Balthazar being quite so petty.
“I will speak to a physician and fetch a tincture to ensure he causes no trouble,” he told the gaoler. “Do not speak to him. Ensure that nobody goes near him. Under Maximillian’s orders, only I will interact with the prisoner.”
He didn’t look at Cyrus again before he turned and walked away, the guards at his back.
“Here.”
Balthazar took longer to return than Cyrus anticipated. He had started to wonder whether his absence was the only lifeline Cyrus would be offered; whether he was expected to rescue himself.
