Chapter Five #2
Cyrus deliberated for longer than he wanted to admit over his response. Simplicity, that was key.
You call a singular letter expressing my (correct) opinions “hate mail”?
Cyrus dithered by the doorway as the raven took to the skies, watching until it faded to a dot and then nothing. He dragged
his gaze away, casting an eye round for something to do. But he felt jittery, restless. He wasn’t hungry, gardening didn’t
hold its usual allure, and he didn’t want to go out and potentially miss a reply. Not that he cared if Maximillian replied, of course—
When another raven returned at dusk, Cyrus was by the door within moments.
You sent more than one letter and you know it. I’m not stupid.
Well, opinions certainly differed on that. Maximillian’s handwriting was less perfect than he would have imagined. Loopy, a touch messy. He pressed down too hard with his quill.
How did he know? Did he know, or was he just guessing?
I beg to differ. On both accounts. I sent just one letter. Perhaps you simply read it numerous times.
You sent me 43 letters pretending to be different people.
Damn, he’d counted. Cyrus couldn’t help but feel a little pleased. It was nice to have his hard work appreciated.
You received 43 angry letters? Perhaps I underestimated the readers of Athaca News and their ability to see through your lies.
But I can hardly be held responsible for their ire.
The raven arrived the next afternoon.
You used the same quill and ink to write all of them.
The same quill and ink that you used to write the one letter that you signed with your name.
You smudged ink from that letter onto some of the others, so you quite literally left your fingerprints all over them.
You tore up a reel of parchment to write the hate mail; my personal assistant was able to piece them all back together, so we know they came from the same source.
Namely, you. Then of course there was the fact that the raven used to deliver the letters bore a tag on its leg which read “if undelivered please return to Cyrus, Earthshaker.” Would you like me to continue?
Cyrus stared at the parchment in silence, struggling with the dawning sense that he could, perhaps, have done a better job
with his hate mail. But he’d been in the moment. He’d been in the thrall of his own creativity. He’d been tuned in to the
“hate” part and not really focused on the practicalities of “mail.”
He took a deep breath and opted to sidestep.
What are you, some kind of fucking postal detective?
Wouldn’t need to be. As I said: stop sending me letters.
You’re the one who keeps replying. And you’re the one who lied about how our fight went to cover up the fact that you lost,
so I’d say you’re the cause.
Three days passed without any response from Maximillian. Cyrus didn’t care about that, not one bit. He stayed in on the first
day, and on the second. But he wasn’t waiting for Maximillian’s reply, it was just that it was raining, and he didn’t much
fancy going out.
On the third day the rain dried up. Cyrus went out for a ride for some fresh air. If he told Soulripper all about Maximillian
and their quarrel in an irritated chunter delivered directly into her twitching ear, that was only because venting cleared
his head.
A raven arrived that evening as Cyrus knelt in his herb garden, picking basil with more aggression than was strictly required.
The bird landed a few steps away from him and held out its leg, imperious as its owner.
A sprite sitting on the edge of Cyrus’s wicker basket paused halfway through cleaning its wings to tilt its head curiously.
Anticipation stirred as Cyrus wiped his hand and took the letter.
He gritted his teeth, annoyed at himself.
It was the thrill of confrontation, that was all, but it was still more reaction than Maximillian deserved.
That’s how it’ll go down in the history books, and that’s what matters in the end.
There was another line of text beneath, smaller, scrawled out in a hurry or perhaps against Maximillian’s better judgement.
The first three words had been crossed out and then rewritten as though he had tried to convince himself not to add it.
Late reply because I was wrapped up in an event at Dorre.
Cyrus read the hastily inked words, trying to decipher what had been going through Maximillian’s mind. It certainly wasn’t
an apology for making Cyrus wait. Was he trying to ensure that Cyrus didn’t think he’d won, that it had taken Maximillian
three days to figure out how to respond to him?
It seemed strange that he would let Cyrus in on any aspect of his life, offer up any detail for a wrongdoer’s reading. But
Cyrus wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass.
Perusal of the latest news parchments provided the insight he needed.
Maximillian had visited Dorre as part of his tour.
He’d helped open a new school. There was a sketch of him standing with a gaggle of dewy-eyed urchins, one child resting on his hip and gazing at him with adoration. Cyrus’s lip curled.
I saw. Busy trying to impress the people before the vote, are we?
This time, Maximillian’s response arrived within a day. He’d touched a nerve.
What do you mean?
Just seems like you’re trying awfully hard. Needing to drum up some popularity, perhaps?
Maybe I just value helping people.
How sweet. I’m touched on their behalf. All those people with all those problems that they expect you to fix. Even a champion
has to find it annoying, I’m sure.
Are you asking or telling?
I don’t need to ask. You said you felt frustrated in that interview you did. Bored too.
Memorising my interviews, are you.
Only the parts about myself x
There was a lull after that exchange. Cyrus told himself it was for the better. He was getting too accustomed to the impatient
rattle of the raven at his window.
But Maximillian, like Cyrus, couldn’t seem to help himself. The next letter carried a weight of honesty Cyrus doubted he’d
meant to share.
So what if I feel frustrated? It’s to be expected. I’m not telling you anything new, I said it in that interview. It’s just champion life. Cut ribbons, save the needy, fight wrongdoers. We’re all just going round and round in circles. It is boring. And I know you feel it too. I can tell.
Written on the back, crossed out once but then rewritten as though Maximillian had changed his mind twice over:
Maybe there’s a way to change things. But it would involve you and I not trying to kill each other the next time we cross paths. I can’t see that happening, can you?
Cyrus’s quill was already in his hand, ready to scratch out whatever reply might niggle the most at Maximillian. But that
last message gave him pause. He touched the nib of his quill to the words Maximillian had written, tracing them.
A way to change things. You and I.
It was probably a champion’s trick. Cyrus should not fall for it. But he couldn’t deny the tug of curiosity.
His response was short and to the point. If Maximillian was playing a game, he would have to spell it out.
Don’t talk in riddles. What are you trying to say?
Maximillian would probably shy away from responding for a while.
It would follow the pattern he’d set thus far—that he seemed willing enough to talk to Cyrus, but he got cold feet whenever he stopped to think about what he was doing.
He’d mentioned a personal assistant; perhaps he had someone whispering in his ear, advising him against it.
But Maximillian’s response was almost immediate.
I’m not writing it down where others could read it. But I’ll tell you to your face.
And Cyrus would have laughed, rumpled up the parchment, and scoffed at the idea that Maximillian ever thought he’d fall for
such a blatant trap, if not for the three words scrawled out below.
If you dare.
Of course Cyrus dared. Whatever Maximillian was proposing, Cyrus dared.
I’ll talk. But you can come to me.
Cyrus didn’t bother to pretend that he wasn’t eager for a response this time. He entertained himself by imaging how Maximillian’s
stomach would drop when he realised that Cyrus wasn’t walking into his trap. How he’d flounder for a way to get out of it,
an excuse to cling to. Some feeble way to let him cling to his pride whilst sidestepping a plan he was never going to agree
to.
But then the raven came, and Cyrus was the one experiencing a jolt of surprise.
When and where?