Chapter Eight #2
He took another moment to look around. The amphitheatre was vast, capable of seating hundreds of people, maybe even a thousand.
Three sides of it were in use today and they were all filling fast. Anticipation was tangible in the air, thickened by the
rumble of excited chatter. Such was the draw of Maximillian, apparently. The jittery sensation stirred, roused to life by
the mass of people.
It wasn’t nerves. It was just . . . this had to go well. Maximillian’s words kept drifting through his head. You put on such a good show. He had to make sure he lived up to that expectation.
“Come on,” Balthazar said in a resigned tone. He gave Cyrus a little push—brave—and the two of them rejoined the crowds as
they snaked down towards the stage area. At the bottom, Balthazar led him to a quieter corner by the edge of the scaffolding.
He glanced around, then ducked under the fabric, emerging within the scaffolding itself.
Cyrus followed him. As the drapes fell back into place behind him, obscuring them from any watchful eyes, Balthazar carefully
parted another swathe of fabric from the side facing the stage to give them a little light. Satisfied, he turned to face Cyrus.
“I’ve given you all there is to know about the ceremony,” he said, pitching his voice low. “If there’s anything else you need
to know to ensure that this runs smoothly and everything happens as we want it to, then ask now.”
Cyrus pushed his hood back and aimed a smirk at Balthazar.
“As we want,” he said pointedly. “I’m so glad you’re buying in to the dream team.”
“Keep your voice down. And I’m not buying in to anything,” Balthazar said sharply. “I’m doing my job, which is to make sure you do a good job, because it will please Maximillian.”
“Sweet,” said Cyrus. “It’s nice to know you’re rooting for me.”
“Please believe me when I say I have never rooted for anyone less on a personal level.”
“Oh, I do. But a professional level?”
Balthazar sniffed. “On a professional level, I hope Maximillian gets everything he wants out of this pretence.”
“Of course. Anything for Maximillian,” Cyrus said lightly. Balthazar got that pinched look again, like Cyrus had pressed on
a bruise.
A flurry of noise from the stage distracted them both. They turned to look, stepping closer to the small gap in the fabric
to peer out. Balthazar had the better vantage point. Cyrus elbowed him in the ribs to take it, ignoring the resulting wheeze.
Maximillian’s arrival was marked by applause so thunderous that the entire amphitheatre trembled, the ground beneath Cyrus’s
feet vibrating as though he truly was the Earthshaker they feared. He craned his neck to see past the stage, to the people
gathered beyond. Rows of eager faces turned towards Maximillian like he was the sun. Most were sat around the edges of the
bowl, but some had been allowed onto the ground level. They pressed up against the edges of the heightened stage and gazed
at the champion with apt adoration as he stepped out beside Cepha’s governor.
Cyrus turned his critical gaze onto the pair, shuffling to get a better view. Maximillian did look impressive, he supposed
sourly, if he was forced to be charitable about his new partner in crime. The champion wore a loose green shirt and dark leather
trousers, his sword resting casually against his thigh. He looked relaxed, smiling down at the enraptured faces surrounding
him on all sides. The warm Cepha sun caught the bronze of his hair and cast a soft glow about him, as though he’d been chosen
by Summer himself to represent the god among mortal kind.
Cyrus averted his eyes. A quick once-over of Maximillian was quite enough to perform a charitable-enough assessment.
“People of Cepha,” called the governor. He was dwarfed by Maximillian; it looked as though a friendly elbow from the champion
could send him hurtling off the stage. His voice was too reedy to carry well. “Thank you all for coming out to see us today.”
Us, like the gathered crowd had any intention of wasting more than the barest glance for his ratty little face. They were too
busy imagining themselves hanging off Maximillian’s biceps. Cyrus scoffed to himself, shifting restlessly.
“Easy,” murmured Balthazar. He was unpleasantly close, trying to share the vantage point. Cyrus felt a moist puff of breath
against his neck and grimaced. “Wait for your moment.”
Cyrus glanced at him. Like the gathered peasants, Balthazar’s gaze was fixed upon Maximillian. Unlike them, there was something
other than goggle-eyed admiration in his eyes, a softness that didn’t fit the rest of his frosty countenance.
Balthazar sensed Cyrus’s eyes on him and stiffened, his expression becoming impassive, as though he had wiped it clean. He
hadn’t meant to let that softness show. “Stop staring at me and pay attention,” he muttered.
Another order. Balthazar really was unspeakably lucky that Cyrus happened to have better things to do than teach him a lesson.
He turned his attention back to the stage, watching as the governor welcomed a small group of local youngsters to greet Maximillian.
Four of them, three girls and a boy. Cyrus paid them little heed, watching as Maximillian spoke to each in turn.
He told one of the girls he would be sure to listen out for her name in the future, then set an encouraging hand on the shoulder of the red-headed boy and praised his powerful stance.
The boy flushed blotchy with pleasure at the compliment.
As the champion turned back to the crowd, his eyes flickered, just briefly, to the shadowy corner where he knew Cyrus and
Balthazar stood waiting.
It gave Cyrus an odd little thrill, a sense of something illicitly intimate passing between them. A thread, invisible to all
others, tying champion and wrongdoer together. All those people with their eyes trained on Maximillian, but only Cyrus knew
what was truly happening in the champion’s head.
Maximillian began his speech. It was the usual nonsense: a champion’s will, their grit and ferocity, good overcoming evil,
blah-blah-blah. Cyrus was only half listening, too busy mapping out the route he would take to get onstage himself. Into the
scaffolding, hidden from view as he worked his way up, and from there he could leap down onto the stage from a height. Nice
and dramatic.
“I know you will do your city proud,” Maximillian declared, drawing his speech to a close. The crowd cheered in agreement.
Time to go.
Cyrus grabbed the rungs of the scaffolding tower, giving it a quick shake to test its sturdiness. The wood bit into his palms,
but the scaffolding barely trembled. Good. He hoisted himself up and started to climb.
Up, up, up he went, rungs passing under hands and feet.
Cyrus came to a stop, glancing down over one shoulder.
He reached out and parted the drapes just enough to get a view of his quarry without giving his presence away.
There was the top of Maximillian’s head—damn it, his hair really was perfect—and there was the governor’s bald spot behind him, an unfortunate comparison.
Maximillian made a joke that didn’t deserve the level of laughter it received. Cyrus manoeuvred himself so that he was facing
the stage rather than the scaffolding, leaning forward and keeping a tight grip on the rungs.
Below, Maximillian inclined his head, accepting applause. He threw out a generous hand to the young would-be champions to
redirect the applause. Then he took a single step forward to meet the governor in the centre of the stage, his hand now outstretched.
Cyrus pounced.
He was a demon descending from the rafters, a dread beast hurtling from on high. His cloak billowed around him as he leapt,
like solid shadows whipped at his ankles. The gasps came first, then the screams, underscored by the thud of his weight onto
the stage as the platform reverberated beneath him. Cyrus landed catlike, knees bent to take the impact and arms outstretched
to keep his balance. It worked; he stayed there for a handful of seconds, holding the position, the fabric of his cloak pooled
like black ink around him. Then he lifted his head, slowly. The hood still hung over his eyes, but he knew that Maximillian
and the governor would see the glint of teeth as he treated them to a predatory smile.
The governor immediately backed away with a strangled yelp as Cyrus rose.
Cyrus paid him no heed, lifting his hands to his hood and pushing it back off his face at that same slow, deliberate pace.
It was theatre, all of it. Perfectly staged, with the audience oblivious to every moment, trapped in a game they didn’t know they were playing.
Cyrus kept his eyes on the champion, a thrill dancing within him.
“Afternoon,” he said softly.
Maximillian had already adopted a defensive stance, his hand on the pommel of his sword. With a single step he placed himself
between Cyrus and the others on the stage, a protective barrier between wrongdoer and innocents.
Nice.
“Earthshaker,” Maximillian said. His voice was quiet, but so too was the crowd. The screams had fallen to fearful silence,
the whole amphitheatre locked into a single tense moment in time.
Behind the governor, a security detail rushed out to help, only to freeze at the sight of the wrongdoer in their midst. The
governor looked like he was trying to speak, but all that came out was a nervous gurgle. He had more luck the second time.
“Seize him!”
Cyrus spared him a single cool glance. Maximillian held up a hand, unhurried.
“No,” he said. The security guards dithered, one taking a step forward but then stopping again, unwilling to go against a
champion’s say-so. The youngsters too had frozen, safe behind Maximillian.
Cyrus had little interest in them. Maximillian stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Cyrus’s. Silence coiled thickly between them, like the vines Cyrus could bend to his bidding. Entangling them.