Chapter Nine #3
Maximillian was already there, alone, sitting at the foot of a beech with his sword beside him. His horse was tethered to
a low-hanging branch. The stallion lifted its head to watch Soulripper approach. Maximillian looked up too. The moonlight
picked out his pleased expression.
“You found it.”
“Wasn’t hard,” Cyrus muttered. For some reason, he felt a little flustered. He covered it up by looking around, plastering
on an unimpressed expression. “Spend a lot of time lurking in forests, do you?”
Maximillian stood up and stretched. “Sounds more like your hobby than mine.” He didn’t seem bothered. “Actually, I used to
come here whenever I was in the area.”
“Lurking,” Cyrus reiterated.
Maximillian shrugged. “Just to get away for a bit,” he said, then paused, as though realising that those words carried more
honesty than he’d intended. “It’s a good place to come and practise when I don’t want people watching,” he amended, gesturing
towards his sword, still lying under the tree.
Cyrus was pretty sure Maximillian had access to plenty of private spaces specifically designed for swordsmanship practice,
and wanting “to get away for a bit” seemed unlikely for a man who had built a career based on the worship of others. Yes,
he’d rolled his eyes at his busy schedule. It didn’t mean he’d ever actually give it up.
Soulripper shifted beside him, impatient. Cyrus pulled his eyes away from Maximillian, stepping forward to secure her reins
a short distance from the stallion. Lysander, Cyrus had learned. Maximillian did not have his own creative flair for names.
Maximillian drifted after him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus saw him hold out a hand to Soulripper.
“Careful,” said Cyrus without thinking. He cleared his throat. Whoops. Hadn’t meant to let a warning slip out. But he’d done it now. “She’s vicious, hates everyone. Bites.”
Maximillian didn’t respond, keeping his hand outstretched. He murmured something to her. Soulripper sniffed at him, then harumphed
quietly and pushed her nose into his fingers.
Cyrus blinked, then glared. Soulripper ignored him, too busy accepting chin scratches from Maximillian. She didn’t even bother
to show off her teeth.
“She’s lovely,” said Maximillian.
Cyrus grunted. She was a dirty traitor.
The quiet itched at his nerves as he stepped back from Soulripper and turned away. Maximillian was still stroking her. He
didn’t appear to be in any rush to get down to business—and shouldn’t that be the focus here? It wasn’t a social visit; he
wasn’t in the habit of meeting champions in secluded glades for fun. Somehow Maximillian always seemed to find a way to throw
him off-balance, to unearth a crack in Cyrus’s armour that he could crawl into. Cyrus wasn’t supposed to have cracks in his
armour in the first place. He was abruptly tired of it, annoyed with himself and with Maximillian.
“So. The wine tasting,” Cyrus said flatly, without turning round. “Our fight.”
He heard Maximillian come closer. “Should be good. I looked at the plans—there’s an upstairs workshop where the tastings are
held, and there’s a large party booked in for that day. Mostly city officials. I’m guest of honour.” If only they knew. “And
there’s a storeroom below in the cellar, so there’s lots of space for us to cause some chaos.”
He sounded like he expected Cyrus to grin with him at that. Cyrus just nodded. That was why he was here: to arrange their fight, nothing more. He hadn’t come to make nice with Maximillian, to play at being anything other than natural enemies who happened, temporarily, to have the same cause.
Maximillian was looking at him, he could feel it. A moment passed, no sound but the hum of insects and the distant murmur
of the river beyond the trees. Then Maximillian stepped closer, his elbow lightly jostling Cyrus. He was very warm.
“Bal’s been droning on about the value of the bottles stored at the winery, about how some of them date back to the beginnings
of the Federation.” Maximillian pitched his voice to imitate Balthazar, unflatteringly nasal. “It would be dreadful if they
were to be damaged—so do be careful, won’t you, I can’t imagine the outcry if this goes wrong. They’ll think it reflects poorly
on you.”
Despite himself, Cyrus’s lip twitched. He could imagine Balthazar’s fussing, almost as well as he could imagine Maximillian’s
unimpressed side-eye.
“And wouldn’t that be terrible,” he said.
Maximillian laughed quietly. “The worst possible outcome, according to Bal. Other than the two of us working together in the
first place, of course. I’m sure he’s still having nightmares about that.”
That was a nice thought. Cyrus could allow it to cheer him up, just a little. “I hope so,” he said, finally lifting his eyes.
He found Maximillian studying him, more closely than he had anticipated, though when Cyrus looked at him the champion averted
his gaze.
“Come on,” Maximillian said after a beat.
“We should get this fight sorted.” He stepped back, loosening the knot at his throat and shrugging off his cloak.
His shirtsleeves were rolled up beneath, tanned skin prickling in the night air.
He linked his hands behind his back and rolled his shoulders until they cracked, screwing up his face with a quiet noise of pleasure.
It was Cyrus’s turn to look away, quickly busying himself with removing his own cloak.
Despite the chill, his cheeks felt oddly warm.
“I was thinking,” Maximillian was saying, “if we start in the workshop, we can be sure of a good audience—captive audience
too, you can block the main entrance. But they’ll be close, so—”
“It needs to look real, I know.”
Maximillian nodded. “Can’t look like we’re swinging to miss. Which . . . probably won’t be a problem for you.” The glance
he threw Cyrus was dry. “A couple of times back in Cepha I wondered whether you were really aiming to miss at all.”
Was he teasing? It sounded like he was. Cyrus unsheathed his daggers, glad of their familiar weight in his hands. Maximillian
might throw him off-balance, but he could find ways to centre himself. “Just keeping you on your toes,” he said casually.
Maximillian scoffed, but Cyrus could see the smile he was trying to hide. “So if you come in from the entrance—wait, let’s
make sure we get this right—”
He was in Cyrus’s space suddenly, both hands planted on Cyrus’s arms, guiding him to the position he wanted.
Cyrus tensed up automatically, but Maximillian either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
He was concentrating, a tiny furrow between his brows.
This close, Cyrus could see so many details.
There was a stray hair that refused to stay in place falling across his forehead.
He’d trimmed his beard recently and there was a small nick at the curve of his jaw.
His eyes looked darker in the shadows of the night. Navy, like his cloak.
“From the plans, the entrance is here—yeah, that’s about right—”
Maximillian positioned himself too, a few steps away. Then he muttered a curse, fetched his sword, and returned to the same
spot. “Okay, so if you come at me from the door like that—”
Cyrus lunged. His right dagger was at Maximillian’s jugular in a heartbeat, the left pricking the curve where his shoulder
met his neck. No escape.
Maximillian jumped. Cyrus smirked.
“Yeah, all right, I wasn’t ready—”
“Oh, you weren’t ready,” Cyrus mocked. “The armed wrongdoer a couple of paces away not enough of a warning for you?”
Maximillian batted the dagger at his throat aside. Cyrus resisted for a moment, then let him, though he kept the other in
place.
“We said it has to look real, not that you have to leap in and instantly kill me in front of everyone,” Maximillian groused.
“How do you expect me to get out of that without actually hurting you?”
“I don’t think I’m the one in danger of—”
Maximillian ducked out from under the dagger, bringing up his sword and slashing towards Cyrus’s other hand.
Cyrus tried to yank his fingers away but he wasn’t quick enough, hissing as the blade sliced a stinging line along the pads of three fingertips, the dagger quickly dropped.
Maximillian followed it up with a shoulder to Cyrus’s chest, hard, knocking the air out of his lungs and sending him staggering back.
It was a move designed to topple him. But Cyrus wasn’t going down alone. He grabbed Maximillian with both hands and dragged
him down too, savouring the yelp that burst from the champion’s mouth.
Maximillian landed on top of him, hard. Fortunately, his sword landed a short distance away, rather than skewering either
or both. Less fortunately, his forehead clonked into Cyrus’s hard enough to send stars whirling behind his eyelids, and an
elbow sought to rearrange his organs. Cyrus made a noise like a sprite being stepped on.
“You’re fucking heavy,” he croaked, once he’d managed to reinflate his lungs.
Maximillian groaned, setting his hands on either side of Cyrus and starting to lever himself up. “You’re the one who—ugh.”
He stopped, scrunching up his eyes, and left his weight resting on one arm whilst his free hand pressed to his forehead. “You’re
the one with a head like a boulder.”
He was still sprawled atop Cyrus. Their legs were tangled, one of Maximillian’s knees caught between Cyrus’s thighs. Cyrus
was suddenly very aware of it, and aware of the fact that he had spent entirely too much time recently pressed up close to
Maximillian. Why did this keep happening?
Maximillian shifted, massaging his forehead. His knee moved too, just slightly. Cyrus swallowed a squeak and turned it into a cough.
“Don’t know why you bothered learning to fight in the first place,” Cyrus mumbled once he could trust his voice. “Could just
sit on people and crush them.” He raised his hands to push at Maximillian, then thought better of it. The thought of planting
his palms against the champion’s muscled chest sent his brain spinning off into an irrational panic from whence there was
no return. He made do with flapping his hands weakly in Maximillian’s face instead. “Come on, get off—”
But Maximillian, damn him, seemed to be in a playful mood. He stopped rubbing his forehead and looked down at Cyrus. Then
he smirked. It was all the warning Cyrus got before Maximillian had grabbed his wrists, one in each hand, and pinned them
to the ground on either side of his head.
This time the squeak did escape. Cyrus stared up at Maximillian, eyes wide. He could feel the flush rising relentlessly up
his neck and into his face. His heart was beating very fast. The movement brought Maximillian closer again, his face inches
from Cyrus. A fleeting thought darted through Cyrus’s mind, quick as a wisp of smoke, half honest and half annoyed. Beautiful. Maximillian was beautiful, there was no denying it, but the fact that Cyrus had to admit it was just another thing he resented
about him.
“You pinned me last time,” Maximillian said. He was putting on an innocent voice, but he was still smirking. “Maybe it’s my
turn.”
Cyrus couldn’t think of anything to say.
Any coherent thought seemed to have fled.
His enemy filled his senses, driving out all else.
Coppery hair falling forward, almost touching his own forehead.
Warm fingers curled around his wrists. Solid weight on his legs, his chest. Patchouli and fresh sweat.
His enemy. A champion. Too close, he was too close, they should not be touching like this.
Lack of rational thought left only irrational urges behind. Instinctively, Cyrus summoned all the strength he could lay claim
to and bucked his torso up, heaving against Maximillian’s weight.
He probably wouldn’t have been able to throw Maximillian off, not from that angle, but Maximillian acquiesced. He let himself
be dislodged, rolling off Cyrus to kneel in the grass beside him before he picked himself up. He was laughing, but he looked
a little flushed too.
Cyrus stayed where he was, staring up at the star-speckled night sky and breathing hard. His lungs were grateful for the chance
to expand again without Maximillian attempting to pulverise them, but the rest of his body felt strangely bereft.
“Didn’t break you, did I?”
Maximillian had turned back towards him. He looked down at Cyrus, head tilted to one side. He sounded amused, but the smile
at the corner of his mouth looked genuine.
Cyrus blew out a breath and pushed himself up onto his elbows with a groan. At least his voice had returned to him. “As if
you could.”
Maximillian’s smile widened. He held out his hand wordlessly.
Cyrus eyed it for a couple of seconds. He could push Maximillian’s hand aside with a sneer, snap at him for thinking Cyrus
would reciprocate this playfulness when he was only here on business. The option was there.
But if Maximillian could enjoy their scheming, why couldn’t Cyrus? And why should he discourage Athaca’s golden boy from lowering
himself to Cyrus’s level? It was what the people would hate most, after all.
He took the outstretched hand. Maximillian’s palm was hot against his own. Strong fingers wrapped around Cyrus’s, securing
them together, then hauled him to his feet.
“Come on. Let’s get this fight sorted.”
Maximillian dropped Cyrus’s hand quickly. But the heat of his touch lingered, long into the night.