Page 89 of Nemesis Mine
He didn’t need to nudge his magic; it was there in an instant, power surging to his fingertips. The startling strength of it made him topple backwards. His armful of wood scattered. Cyrus blinked at the shoots with glowing eyes as they leapt up towards him, growing fast and strong. His hand had fallen to his side, but the plants pushed forward, insistent. Tentatively, Cyrus stretched his fingers out again and felt another powerful surge.
One of the sprites flew over from the maple and landed on the trunk. It plucked at the shoots, now standing three times as tall as the creature itself, then hopped up onto Cyrus’s hand with a burst of high-pitched chatter. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but somehow he felt the sprite’s pleasure. It was as though the events in Durov had toppled some great barrier between himself and his magic, forced open a dam he hadn’t even realised was there.
Another sprite joined the first, familiar humming by his ear preceding its arrival. This one grabbed a shoot and used it to catapult itself across the trunk, then looked at Cyrus as though expecting applause. The other chirped something and pounced on its companion, play-fighting amongst the moss. Despite himself, Cyrus wanted to smile.
His magic still tingled at his fingertips, prickling heat where he was used to tepid warmth. Cyrus exhaled as he straightened up, nudging the magic back and making a conscious effort to break his connection with the trunk. He felt powerful enough to grow an entire tree with another surge, only that was probably not—
Well. Maybe it was possible, now.
Back at their makeshift camp he found Max setting outhis finds from the saddlebag. He held a sizable lump of cheese aloft, still half wrapped in wax paper. Cyrus’s stomach growled.
“Couple of apples and a waterskin. Not much, but it’s something,” Max said distractedly, upending the saddlebag just in case.
Cyrus picked up the waterskin and an apple, sitting on a fallen log. The water was tepid but brought immediate relief. He drank half, then stoppered the skin and threw it back to Max, biting into his apple.
“We’ll have to go near a town for provisions later,” he said, his mouth half full. “Once you’ve had a rest. There are some mushrooms back there, and I can probably grow us some more apples using the pips, but without any other seeds...”
Max lowered the waterskin, wiping a hand over the droplets caught in his beard. After a beat he said, “Or we could rob some travellers, if we see any. Threaten them into handing their provisions over. Maybe another horse too.”
Cyrus glanced at him. Max had leaned over to snag his own apple. His expression was indifferent, but carefully so.
“Could do,” said Cyrus, cautiously. Neither needed to point out that Max was not a champion anymore, but it was still surprising to hear him so openly suggest a wrongdoer’s alternative. Cyrus let a few seconds stretch by before he said, “You know you don’t have to prove—”
“I know,” said Max. His voice was difficult to read, for once. Cyrus searched about for the right words to say, but nothing seemed to fit.
He watched Max surreptitiously as he finished the apple, logging every bruise and cut and smear of blood. Hisface was pale, the shadows under his eyes too prominent. Exhaustion pressed his shoulders down.
It made fierce protectiveness well up within Cyrus. He stood and moved closer, sitting beside Max.
“Give me that,” he said, indicating the waterskin. Max glanced at him but did as he was bid.
Cyrus cast around for something suitable. Finding nothing, he tore a scrap off his cloak and turned the waterskin over it to shake out the last of the water. The river was not far; they could easily replenish. Maybe, he thought tentatively, he would even be able to call water from a tree. He’d never tried that before, but the plants round here felt friendly, eager to help. Like he was kin.
He tugged the collar of Max’s shirt aside to touch the wet rag to the groove of his collarbone, wiping away old blood. Max watched in silence, holding still as Cyrus moved from his chest to his wrists and hands, then his face. He needed to bathe and rest and eat well. But here and now, Cyrus would do what he could.
The rag lingered over a bruise curling up around his cheekbone, the swell of angry red giving way to purple. Max let his eyes drift closed with a little sigh. Cyrus’s chest felt tight at the trust, even as anger flared for the people who had done this. But he kept his movements slow and gentle, daubing the rag under Max’s cheekbone to collect brown flecks and the grey dust of Durov.
“I’d kill them again, you know,” Cyrus said quietly. “All of them. If—”
“If I hadn’t got to some of them first,” murmured Max.His eyes were still closed. It was impossible to tell from his tone how he felt about that.
That barrier up around his feelings made Cyrus nervous. He remembered Max’s words, spoken in a quiet moment all those weeks ago in Cyrus’s lair.I feel like I’m putting on this big performance. All the time. For so many people.Was this Max performing for him, pretending that he wasn’t appalled at the events that had led up to him turning on his own people?
Max opened his eyes and looked at Cyrus. For a moment neither spoke. Cyrus almost didn’t dare, so desperate to know what was going on in Max’s head.
Then Max said, just as quiet, “I don’t regret it.”
Cyrus’s breath lodged in his throat. All he could say was, “No?”
Max shook his head slowly. “I should, I know. But I don’t.” He went quiet for a moment. Cyrus could see him grappling with a thought he could not bring himself to speak.
Cyrus reached out, resting his hand atop Max’s. Skin to skin, warmth bleeding through. After a beat, Max turned his hand so that his palm faced up, their fingers interlocking. He squeezed gently, then took a breath and looked up with a vulnerability that made Cyrus’s heart hurt.
“Are you judging me?”
Cyrus blinked, too taken aback by the suggestion to properly take it in at first. Then he frowned.
“Why wouldIjudge you?”
