Chapter Three #3
The peasants shrank back under the eaves of the tavern.
“I do not hide,” Cyrus hissed, drawing himself up to his full height and then risking a lurch up onto his tiptoes when he realised that Maximillian was slightly taller than him.
The indignity of it. “I have been waiting for you to finally show yourself, to stop preening under the attentions of those bound to kiss the ground at your feet.”
Maximillian didn’t move. His expression was guarded but Cyrus could still read the surprise in his eyes, and oh, that was
gratifying. The champion had not expected confrontation like this.
When was the last time a wrongdoer had challenged Maximillian so directly?
Cyrus might have asked, if he could find a way to needle about it, but he was distracted by the way Maximillian’s eyes suddenly
narrowed. They flickered over Cyrus’s face like he was trying to peel back the layers of skin and sinew to the bone beneath,
as though he might memorise every hollow and curve.
Or like he was trying to work out where he had seen this face before.
Cyrus’s nerves lurched, but his tongue rushed to provide a distraction. “Do you know why I have been waiting for you, champion?”
Cool and silky, that was right; there was no room for any unease. “I wanted to see my foe before I challenged him. To see
if any of the rumours of your mightiness hold substance. Whether you are worth my time.”
Cyrus looked Maximillian up and down, his mouth twisting as though he found something wanting. It worked, in so far as Maximillian’s
eyes snapped back to his. His eyelashes were long, almost girlish. Cyrus entertained a brief fantasy of plucking out each
hair one by one.
“Who are you?”
This was it: a critical moment. Maximillian might not recognise that he was one and the same with the young wrongdoer who’d
failed to attack him that day by the river, but did he know of him now? Had he caught wind of the reputation Cyrus had built
in the years that had followed?
Cyrus didn’t look away. “I am Cyrus.”
And—there. A reaction, infinitesimal. Cyrus would have missed the way his eyes widened had their gazes not been so locked,
and there was that gratification again, only this time he felt it clamour hotly in the pit of his belly. Maximillian knew
him, all right.
“You’ve heard of me,” he stated.
Maximillian inclined his head. “The Eborre quake. And you attacked Lailar last week.”
Damn it. He must have seen the fucking drawing in Athaca News. Cyrus exhaled, forcing the thought aside. Better to focus on the fact that Maximillian recognised his work despite the mistakes
in the report. And he wasn’t laughing. No, there was a shrewdness in his gaze, almost curiosity, like Cyrus was something
new and unpredictable.
Cyrus had almost forgotten the presence of the villagers lurking by the tavern. Their heads swivelled back and forth, expressions
oscillating between reverence and fearful confusion. He was abruptly reminded of their presence when one of them ventured,
“I thought Lailar was attacked by someone called Cit—”
No time to think. Cyrus wrenched his eyes away from Maximillian, his head turning to fix the villager with a look that had the rest of his sentence withering in his putrid little mouth.
In a single fluid movement Cyrus was in front of the peasant, his hand stretching out to grasp the man by his flabby throat.
The rest shrieked and dived for cover, leaving his victim quailing before him, whimpering out an apology as Cyrus’s fingers closed in on his neck—
Maximillian was suddenly there, in between him and the peasant, knocking his arm aside. Cyrus snarled and surged forward,
intent on shoving Maximillian away and getting to the peasant now cowering behind him.
Maximillian staggered slightly but then planted his feet, cementing himself in place. Cyrus’s plans for posturing were left
behind in the dust as he launched himself to attack again, but as his hand clawed out to land the first punch, it was caught
in a firm grip. Maximillian didn’t go for the wrist, didn’t try to grab hold of his fist—instead he made the most of Cyrus’s
outstretched hand to entwine their fingers and then squeeze, firmly, holding Cyrus’s hand captive within his own.
Cyrus froze. Maximillian’s grip did not relent.
“No,” said Maximillian.
Cyrus stared at him, breathing hard. Their hands were still locked together, palm to palm. It was too close, too intimate.
Maximillian’s skin was hot. He could feel every jut of delicate bone. His skin crawled at the proximity. He wanted to yank
his hand away but he couldn’t. His own bones ached, caught in a vice, and yet still he did not look away.
It was silent, strangely so, as though everybody in their vicinity had forgotten how to use their lungs. Then the cowering peasant broke the spell, letting out a squeak of relief. He began to edge sideways, trying to keep Maximillian in between himself and Cyrus.
Cyrus exhaled as discreetly as possible. He tried to pull his arm back, testing Maximillian’s grip. The champion loosened
his hold, his gaze dropping to sweep Cyrus’s face, trying to read him for any sign of deception. Cyrus deliberately kept his
face expressionless as he lowered his arm to his side, his movements slow and measured. He wiped his hand on his cloak where
Maximillian had touched him, allowing a hint of a lip curl to break through his impassive mask.
An intervention was expected: a shove to separate him from his victim, a warning jab with that sword, even a brawl. Yet the
way that Maximillian had gone about it, the closeness of him, was . . .
It was different. He was different. He was not entirely what Cyrus expected. Arrogant, smug, superior—yes. But unpredictable
too. It was unsettling, and Cyrus did not like it.
He grasped for the familiar to make up for it, summoning another sneer and directing it over Maximillian’s shoulder at his
would-be victim.
“He would do well to think before he speaks,” he said, deliberately quiet, letting the threat creep in around the edges of
each word. “There will not always be someone around to watch out for him.”
Maximillian didn’t glance back. Perhaps he could feel the peasant’s trembling presence well enough; perhaps he just knew exactly
what a pathetically grateful villager looked like without the need to turn.
“I’m sure he will,” Maximillian said levelly. “But I must correct you. I will always be watching out for those in need.”
Cyrus scoffed, even as the villagers seemed to swell as one, buoyed by the words of support. Whatever strange atmosphere had
descended during this face-off, it quickly dissipated with the urge to roll his eyes.
Cyrus sniffed, tossing his head. “Well . . .” he said. He let his pause drag out just long enough to be uncomfortable. “We’ll
have to see if that is the case.”
Perfect eyebrows, sculpted but not too neat, inched upwards. “Ah,” said Maximillian. “Yeah, you were saying. You’re here to challenge me.”
Cyrus scowled before he could stop himself. He couldn’t help it—that little patronising smile aggravated him unlike anything
else. How Cyrus longed to lash out, paint his own smile across the champion’s smug face. One that would not be nearly so white
and straight.
The temptation to snap out a retort was right there at the back of his throat, but he held it back with an effort. He needed
to take care, pick his battles. Maximillian had got in the way of Cyrus using that peasant’s throat as a stress ball, yes,
but he hadn’t been scared off. If anything, it set up himself and Maximillian as well matched; added allure to whether champion
or wrongdoer would win in a true fight. It provided an ideal opportunity for the villagers to gossip about what they had seen
before Cyrus returned and ended Maximillian for good. That was the point of this, he reminded himself. He wanted people to talk, so long as they said the right things.
And there were ways that he could manipulate the situation to his advantage. Cyrus loved manipulating.
“No, I came to see if you were worth a challenge.” He threw a lazy glance in the direction of the villager Maximillian had saved, lingering just long enough to
prompt a bead of sweat to form on the man’s brow and begin its tremulous journey down his temple. “I suppose you’ve proved
yourself interesting. It’s hard to find a good match when you’ve powers like mine, you see. Takes all the fun out of a battle.”
A sniff for effect, wetter than Cyrus had intended. He rolled with it, maintaining eye contact and pretending that he’d meant
for Maximillian to hear the dislodging of snot in his nasal passages.
Maximillian’s gaze was critical. It was an improvement on patronising, at least. “Why should I let you walk away?” he asked
slowly. “If you’re planning on attacking me at some point in the future, it makes more sense for me to stop you right now.”
Cyrus smiled. This was it; his moment to illustrate that he was better than Maximillian. To remind him of how he ought to
speak to those more powerful than himself.
He pushed down with his magic, away from the soles of his boots and into the earth below, stirring the tangled civilisation
of roots beneath their feet. They twitched to life, inquisitive, but Cyrus bade them still. He only wanted to awaken his magic
enough to let his irises glow a faint purple, a warning. He caught the flash of wariness across Maximillian’s face before
the champion could smother it and his smile grew.
“You’ve heard of me,” he said softly. “But have you heard what else they call me?”
He wanted Maximillian to say it. Wanted to see those righteous lips shape the word, wanted to hear a tremor of unease in that deep voice. Cyrus focused on his mouth, watching intently as Maximillian took a breath, his lips parting in preparation to answer.
“Earthshaker,” whispered a villager from the back of the crowd.
Winter’s frigid nipples, they were annoying. Truly, Cyrus could not imagine why anyone would want to be a champion, tied to
the service of these irritants rather than dedicated to making their lives unpleasant. He had been so right all those years ago when
he had decided to become a wrongdoer because people were annoying and deserved it.
Maximillian looked sharply to the crowd before his gaze slanted back to Cyrus. Cyrus gritted his teeth, unduly frustrated
that he would never know for sure whether Maximillian had already known the answer.
But for now, he had to wrap up this encounter. “That’s right.” Cyrus took a breath, allowing himself to savour the word. “Earthshaker.”
A glance at Maximillian from beneath his lashes. The champion was silent. Cyrus luxuriated in it. That name shifted the power
balance back to him, where it belonged. It underscored the fact that everything that happened here only happened because Cyrus
allowed it. If Maximillian displeased him, he could bring the village of Arclee down on everyone’s head.
Or so they thought, and that was enough.
“I’ll walk away,” Cyrus said in that same soft voice. “You’ll let me.”
A breeze stirred Maximillian’s hair as he nodded stiffly. Satisfaction brewed within Cyrus. He watched a honeyed lock lift and then fall back into place across Maximillian’s forehead, an artist’s touch-up.
It was tempting to throw out some final barb—to try and spook the villagers further, provoke them into scattered chaos. Showmanship,
that was what he usually strove for.
But something about the way Maximillian looked at him quelled the urge, made him want to tread softly, to keep the sense of
quiet unease that had come to life between them. Cyrus felt almost heady with the realisation that there was true tension
there; a mutual knowledge, even if Maximillian didn’t want to know it, that each had met his match. He fancied he could see it shimmering in the air between their bodies, a faint purple
haze to match his powers. Could smell it, something catching; a burnt edge.
“I’ll be seeing you, Maximillian,” he said quietly. A promise. It was almost a shame to turn away and break the endless blue
of that eye contact.
Cyrus felt Maximillian’s eyes on his back until he was out of sight.