Page 9 of Nemesis Mine
A pretence, all of it, Cyrus was sure. But a good one. Maximillian, damn him to Summer’s relentless humidity, was skilled in what he did.
As Maximillian stopped outside the tavern, the villagers reluctantly peeled themselves away to give him more space. Cyrus scanned him critically, hoping for some great and visible flaw that the artists had avoided conveying when they reported on his good looks. Perhaps Maximillian had a cloven hoof for a foot. Perhaps he had no eyebrows. Perhaps he had a woefully flat arse.
To Cyrus’s regret, he could see no such flaws. True to his depiction, Maximillian had thick brown hair falling into waves about his face, framing strong cheekbones and wide-set blue eyes. His mouth was full and quick to smile, his beard trimmed short and neat. He was tanned and tall and broad-shouldered, wearing his clothes with the casual ease of someone who knew they always looked good—brown leather trousers and a cream shirt, in this case, simple fare made luxurious by the wearer. He was as picture perfect as the last time Cyrus had laid eyes on him, so handsome it was almost painful to look directly at him. Beautiful. As radiant as the sun.
It was disgusting. Cyrus hated him.
“Good people of Arclee,” Maximillian called, in a rich, deep voice that rang out across the village square. “Thank you for your welcome. As ever, you are too kind, and as ever, I remind you that I do not seek special treatment from you. I seek only to help you by whatever means I can.”
The champion smiled, and there was that dimple, special enough to earn a spot in every artist’s depiction. Gross.
“Today I have put out a fire and mended a gate, and you tell me that there is nothing else I can help with!” The tone of mock surprise in his voice had all the villagers tittering. Cyrus scoffed under his breath. “That all is well as it is.”
That was debatable. Cyrus cast a critical eye over the village. If Maximillian really wanted to help, he could give the whole thing a good scrub. Maybe include some of the villagers in that too. They looked like they could do with a communal dunking.
“If anyone knows of anything that requires my aid, please do let me know.” Maximillian’s benevolent smile was nauseating. Cyrus imagined slicing it off. “In the meantime, I have been offered the chance to dine in your fine tavern. I have had a hard day’s travel and so I gratefully accept your kindly invitation.”
Of course he did. In truth, Cyrus wasn’t sure whether eating in that tavern counted as reward or punishment. It had a tendency to serve meat from unknown sources and ale that had a faint tang of urine, and not because Cyrus had got inventive in the storeroom.
“I encourage you all to join me,” Maximillian added, and he couldn’t possibly have meant it—who’d want that lot gawking at you whilst you ate—but it didn’t much matter in any case, because Cyrus couldn’t let him slip away so easily.
He stood up quickly. Or tried to, at least. His limbs had locked whilst he had lain on the ground and it was more of a hobbling lurch that got him to his feet.
Cyrus styled it out, pretending he’d meant to stagger. Perhaps it added an air of unstable mystery to his actions. It seemed to work, judging by the gasps of the villagers as a black-cloaked stranger suddenly materialised from their crops.
“Maximillian,” he said coldly.
Maximillian frowned. Cyrus could just make out the tiny furrow that appeared between his brows. He stared at it greedily, soaking up the sight of the inconsequential mar on the perfect façade.
“Hi,” said Maximillian.
That... wasn’t the response Cyrus had been expecting. He had imagined it over and over again as the barley tickled his nose. Maximillian would look alarmed upon catching sight of him in all his villainous glory. He would ask questions about what Cyrus’s evil plans were and brag about how he would stop them. Cyrus would laugh, wickedly and with great charisma, and assure Maximillian that he would never come close to stopping him, although he was welcome to try. He would round up with some tantalising hint implying that the champion could expect to see Cyrus again, and leave Maximillian with that fear festering in the back of his mind. Then people would gossip about Cyrus’s bold threats with awe, and theirnextmeeting would be the one where Cyrus would kick the crap out of Maximillian and leave him snivelling at his feet before ruthlessly finishing him off.
Crucially, throughout this entire exchange, Cyrus would not think once about what had happened the last time they met. It would not cross his mind.
That part was easier said than done. Maximillian eyed Cyrus with mingled surprise and confusion, no recognition evident. Aggravation warred with relief. It was a good thing, he reminded himself sharply. The last thing he wanted to see was a flood of realisation as the champion thought back to that fateful day by the river.
It didn’t meanhecould keep it from his thoughts, though. Memory muscled in, and faced with Maximillian right there in front of him, he could no longer fend it off.
It was years ago. Cyrus had been young and foolish, freshly established as Earthshaker and looking to hone his reputation with a champion takedown. Maximillian was on a riverboat, enjoying a spot of wining and dining courtesy of the rich folk who always sought to social climb onto a champion’s strong shoulders. Cyrus had read about the event. He’d looked at the sketch of the young champion—the artful rumple of his hair, his boyish grin. And he’d thought:Target acquired.
He’d scoped out the route in advance, trekking along the riverbanks until he found the perfect position with a sturdy willow overhanging the water. Now that he’d let the memory in, it was unforgiving in its clarity: suckling mud under his boots, kingcup sprouting bright and showy from the wet soil sloping down to the water’s edge, the thick brown seed heads of bulrushes reflected in the river’s lazy ripples. Cyrus was in good spirits as he clambered up the tree and settled on a thick branch halfway up, daydreaming about the screams of horror that would surely rise the moment he pounced onto the deck of the boat and confronted Maximillian.
Those screams had not happened, because when the boat passed under him Cyrus had misjudged the leap and thrown himself straight into the murky depths of the river rather than onto the decking. In fact,hehad been the one to scream as he did it.
There was a stomach-shrivelling sense of humiliationattached to every associated recollection. The way a woman’s black curls had whipped up around her in a frenzy as she startled at the sight of him hurtling overhead, the cries of astonishment interspersed with a couple of screams. A man’s voice jeering: “If you wanted to join us so badly, you had only to ask!” Then, inevitably, the laughter.
Most of all he remembered Maximillian. The champion came over to the edge of the boat as Cyrus surfaced in a state of spluttering shock, drenched to the bone and crowned with algae. There had been a moment, with the water pressing down on him and the cold of it all around, where Cyrus’s magic had threatened to burst out of him. The willow, drooping over the river, had twitched a bough towards him to help before Cyrus clamped down on his power. Had Maximillian seen? Had he been looking?
He had no way of knowing, though he’d scoured the news for weeks afterwards, sick at the thought of the champion revealing his secret. He only knew that right before Maximillian smirked and reached out, doubtless to shove Cyrus’s head back underwater, their eyes had locked.
Just as they were locked now. There was a hint of wariness in those blue eyes—only a hint. He was not nearly as wary as he should be. Frustration burned through him. Did Cyrus not cut a foreboding figure, a dread form, a nightmare rising from gloomy shadows to haunt his every waking moment?
“You’ve got something on you,” said Maximillian, gesturing.
Cyrus glanced down before he could stop himself. Early seeds had attached themselves liberally to his all-blackoutfit, blades of grass clinging in unfortunate places. His jaw tightened. When he looked back up, Maximillian was suppressing a small, patronising smile that made Cyrus want to peel his face off.
The villagers were all gawping. He had to commit.
