Page 91 of Nemesis Mine
Still, as they skirted Arclee on foot and continued north, temptation reared its head in the form of Cyrus’s mountain, looming into view in the distance. He stopped beside the horse (Gutgrabber, so named at Cyrus’s insistence) and stared up at it, unable to deny a burst of longing as he thought of his soft bed, the wardrobe of clothes that wouldn’t feel stiff and gritty after being washed in the river.
“I think we should check,” Cyrus stated. Max had stopped behind him. Cyrus didn’t need to see him to sense the coming objection, hastening to add, “I don’t mean to stay. But we need supplies. We can get some of my things and then keep going, in and out, nobody will know we were there. And then we—we can think about what happens next.”
Max hesitated. He wanted to say no, Cyrus could tell. But their supply rationswerepitiful. Cyrus had been growing what he could, but he was restricted without access toseeds and cuttings, and force-growing from scratch never tasted quite right. Max disliked their limited diet and rough sleeping nearly as much as Cyrus did. “Fine,” he said at last. “We’ll check.Carefully.And then move on.”
Although it had been his idea, Cyrus had the creeping sensation that something was off from the moment they reached Ranragh’s outskirts. It was probably just paranoia, because every time he looked over his shoulder, nobody was there. Nobody standing in the open mouths of the alleyways that pocked Ranragh’s flank, nobody watching from the shadows. Ranragh sounded as it always did: a hum of chatter from the centre, gulls spying for easy pickings over the harbour, fishermen shouting from boat to shore. The only eyes on them belonged to a straggly-haired child peeping from a window and a stray dog tracking their progress without bothering to lift his head from his paws.
When they reached the wooden bridge cutting a shortcut through the marsh, Cyrus inspected the ropes carefully before he stepped onto the planks, just in case he’d inspired any young up-and-coming wrongdoers among Ranragh’s population. Max glanced at him inquisitively, but Cyrus didn’t feel inclined to explain.
Up the path they went, tiny stones crunching beneath their feet and under Gutgrabber’s hooves, their breathing laboured. The mountain always felt particularly steep when he was tired, but Gutgrabber was tired too. He’d carried them far enough. Cyrus let Max take the lead, keeping his eyes fixed on his own boots as they plodded along, not wanting to see how far they still had to go. He mentally sifted through the items he wanted to pack, trying to prioritise.He wouldn’t have space to take everything, but he thought he could probably convince Max that at least three of his best copper pans were a necessity—
“Erm,” said Max. “Cy?”
Cyrus looked up. His heart jolted. There, grazing at the side of the path and pointedly ignoring them, was Soulripper.
For a moment there was only blank disbelief. Then he rushed forward, forgetting that he was supposed to be cool and unattached and unsentimental, and buried his face in her shoulder. She lifted her head and flicked her ears, still grinding grass between her teeth.
“She found her way home,” Cyrus said thickly, withdrawing to beam at her as he twisted a hand in her mane. Soulripper gave him a dirty look, but he could see right through it. She hadn’t removed his fingers for the audacity of stroking her; that, for Soulripper, was practically affectionate. “She came back to me.”
“I don’t know about that.” Max stepped closer, letting Soulripper nose at his fingers. She harrumphed, pushing back against him. “I think she came back forme.”
He was probably right, but Cyrus wasn’t going to let the little fact of Max’s disgusting lovability spoil his moment. He pressed his face into the horse’s neck, breathing in the familiar musky scent as she turned her attention to Gutgrabber and examined him in silent judgement. He hadn’t been looking to find a companion when he stole Soulripper, but he’d found one all the same.
Max’s hand ghosted over his back, gentle. Well, yes. He’d found two.
They walked the final stretch up the mountain path to Cyrus’s door, Gutgrabber plodding placidly beside Max. Soulripper meandered behind, keeping enough distance that she could ostensibly pretend she wasn’t with them. Cyrus’s mood was buoyant as they rounded the final corner.
Max stopped. Cyrus bumped into him. He gave Max a little push, but Max didn’t move. Frowning, Cyrus stepped around him.
“What are you—”
He fell silent as he saw the reason for the halt. The usual offerings left outside his door had been kicked and stamped to obliteration. The sour stench of spilled milk rose from a carpet of squashed cake and torn bread splattered with congealed egg yolks. Stamped berries formed a bloody pulp. The remains of Max’s tour poster had been tacked to the door, bedraggled and curling at the edges, and a single word was scrawled across it in angry red paint.
TRAITOR.
Cyrus stared at it, too stunned to register anything else. He took it all in again, as though it might be easier to believe the second time round. It wasn’t, but a grim realisation came to him as he read that word, over and again.
The people’s anger towards Max outweighed their fear of Cyrus. They had read of Cyrus’s true magic and knew now that he had been lying to them. They also knew that the lies didn’t matter much, in the end, because he still had the power to bring a castle tumbling to ruin.
Nevertheless, their rage towards the traitor champion who had turned on them was greater than their fear.
Cyrus glanced at Max. He was still staring at the door,silent. Cyrus stepped past him and pushed the door open. He already knew what he would find.
Sure enough, his lair had been turned upside down. Every bottle and glass had been smashed. His brooding chair lay on its side, each leg snapped off. The couch had been gutted, feathers sprouting from every knife slash and more littering every surface. Everything on the walls had been dragged down and stamped on, his artwork lying in tatters. With a pang, he realised that his beloved vegetable patch had likely suffered the same fate. The sprites had probably fled in terror.
“Cyrus,” said Max from behind him, pain in his voice, “I’m so—”
“We only came back to pick up a few things,” Cyrus said. “We were going to move on anyway.”
He sounded calm. It was, he was surprised to realise, genuine. This would have been enough to cause a meltdown of mighty proportions not so long ago. Now, instead of vengeful rage, there was a sense of something falling into place; a finality that came, unexpectedly, as a relief. This wasn’t their place anymore.
“It was your home,” said Max quietly.
Cyrus just looked at him levelly. “Used to be.”
Max stared back at him. Then he gave Cyrus a small, understanding smile.
“We should grab what we can,” he said after a moment. “Not that there’s much, but...”
